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Cortlandt 

/ 

Laster, 

Capitalist 

by 1 

HARLEY DEENE 



This Novel has been awarded, 
the & 1,000.00 Cash Prize offered 
by Laird ct Lee for the best orig- 
inal American novel submitted to 
them between Sept. 25, 2802, and 
March 31, 2802. 


CHICAGO 

LAIRD & LEE, PUBLISHERS 


■ 


CORTLANDT 

LASTER, 

CAPITALIST 


BY 


HARLEY DEERE 




NO. i 

JULY, iSq2 

' 

V 

I 




CHICAGO 
LAIRD & LEE 
1892 





9 


* 


CORTLAND! LASTER, Capitalist 


» 















































































































V * 






































































































































‘ 














r 





CORTLANDT 

Laster, 

Capitalist 

V 

By HARLEY DEENE 



CHICAGO ^ i- 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 
1892 





Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 
Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-Two, 

By LAIRD & LEE, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington 


All Rights Reserved. 

t. 







CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I. 818 Broadway 7 

II. Behind the Scenes of the “Gaiety” . 22 

III. The Rose of Satzuma 50 

IV. Conspirators Two 67 

V. A Good Day’s Work 86 

VI. The Veil is Torn Aside .... 104 

VII. Her Fate in Her Hands* . 119 

VIII. A Safe Interview . 148 

IX. A Fox in Shepherd’s Garb .... 164 

X. Ways that are Dark ..... 186 

XI. Priest and Dancer 204 

XII. A First Night at the “Murray Hill” 224 

XIII. What the French Call a Master-Singer 245 

XIV. Good-bye, Sweetheart 263 

XV. Mrs. Van Cleet’s Day of Triumph . . 285 

XVI. Maroussia’s Wedding Gift .... 301 

XVII. The Kiss of Eternal Peace . . . 318 


. . . Do you 'want to know to what extremes 
guilty love can go ? See it at work in the 
heart of a man whose wealth is boundless. 

— Seneca. 


CORTLANDT LaSTER, 

CAPITALIST 


I 

8 I 8 B ROADWAY 

“Supper is ready, gentlemen.” 

The speaker, a tall, middle-aged mulatto, with 
clean-cut features and long silky beard, bowed 
slightly to the well behaved company that half 
filled the upper part of the wide hall, and motioned 
them to the table, plentifully served behind him. 

The rooms, well known of all “ about-town ” New 
Yorkers, and of many others, East and West, 
occupied the whole parlor floor of an ancient 
family mansion near Twelfth street, on noisy, popu- 
lous Broadway. Upon the outside door of the com- 
fortable looking building, a well-polished plate bore 
the words “ Central Club and an inexperienced 
man, if admitted within this carefully guarded 

( 7 ) 


8 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


sanctum, would have had to look around more than 
once before realizing that he was simply a visitor to 
a gambling “hell” of the upper grade, and not an 
honored guest in a reputable club. 

If properly introduced by some old habitut of the 
place, he would have seen the solid, oaken door 
opened before him by “Wash,” the gigantic colored 
man above mentioned, reputed to never forget a face 
once carefully noted upon the tablets of his mem- 
ory. In the hall, rows of hats and batches of canes 
and umbrellas denoted the presence of a numerous 
clientele, whilst in the three parlors, thrown into 
one room by the suppression of the usual folding 
doors, groups of attentive players thronged the 
tables whereon the “ tiger ” was nightly “ bucked ” 
with varying success. 

The decoration of the hall, one of the finest of its 
kind in New York, was quiet and tasteful. A single 
looking-glass, at the further end of the room, behind 
the faro-dealer and next to the large safe of the 
firm, reflected the many chandeliers and the lighted 
gas-jets. Two elderly gentlemen, — one of them, 
with his gray side whiskers, looking every inch like 
a successful and responsible down-town merchant — 
walked up and down the room, with the unmistak- 
able appearance of masters of the house. One of 
these, at times, took his seat upon a high stool, to 
the right of the faro-dealer, surveying from beneath 
his light gray, wide-brimmed and low-crowned hat, 
the uniform of the house so to speak, the many in- 
cidents of the game. Around the faro lay-out, sat, 
besides the dealers, eight or ten men, some with their 


8 1 8 BROADWAY 


9 


coats on, some without, all perfectly dignified and 
silent except when announcing their moves or calling 
for more stacks of chips. By far the heaviest and 
steadiest wagers took place in this part of the room 
where, above the head of the dealer, hung the sign, 
affixed to the looking-glass : “ Day House, 12 Ann 
Street/’ 

A much less frequented center of attraction was the 
double roulette-table, the wide expanse of which 
stretched itself between the faro-lovers and the sup- 
per-table. Behind it and close to the wheel, the 
“ Major,” a pock-marked Southerner, with stolid, 
imperturbable mien, stood guard over his stacks of 
varicolored chips, and settled the bets after each 
stoppage of the ball. A few high stools, ranged 
around the long, oval table, seated the persistent 
players, whilst, standing behind them, stray deser- 
ters from the faro-table attempted to retrieve their 
losses at the more disastrous game, by throwing at 
random their last spare cash upon the numbers, 
the dozen-cases, or the simple side chances. 

Here you met with more animation on the part 
of the players, even with weak attempts at a joke. 
The winners also, few and far between, manifested 
their satisfaction with some sort of enthusiasm, punt- 
ing right and left with a noise of clattering 
ivory checks, and addressing sharp orders to the 
dealer to place their bets when their arms could not 
reach easily. There was undoubtedly some sem- 
blance of pleasure-seeking in that section of the 
room ; not exclusively the dull, heavy expression of 
the absorbed gambler whose stakes are not only to 


IO CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

be ciphered in cash, but carry away with them hap- 
piness and honor. 

“No supper for me, Wash,” remarked one of the 
roulette players, as he laid down a full stack of 
white chips on the black, and pulled out his watch. 
“ I have to be twelve blocks away in half an hour, 
and, with your permission, I'll just take a leetle 
brandy.” The voice was clear and soft, the accent 
slightly foreign, and, to an experienced ear, more 
Russian than French. 

“ Thirteen, black,” droned the monotonous voice 
of the Major, placing a stack of white chips next to 
the one just punted on the black. That night, only 
six players surrounded the table, the young man 
who had just spoken, a steady winner for the last 
hour or so. 

It was evident that this player was not, although 
on speaking terms with the employes of the house, 
born to the land and manners of his surroundings. 
His very blonde face and pale gray eyes, his slight, 
turned-up mustache and his close-cut hair would 
have marked him at once as a European, even if his 
slow drawl and his half contemptuous, half courteous 
bow, whenever addressing the dealer, had not re- 
vealed a foreign aristocrat away from his native 
sphere. Without close -inspection it would have 
been difficult, perhaps, to guess aright his age, for, 
if his thin lips were red and his brow perfectly 
smooth, the peculiar hardness of his general expres- 
sion was not that of a very young man. After 
attentive surveying, however, one would call him a 
man of thirty-five, and have hit pretty near the 


8 1 8 BROADWAY 


II 


mark. On his long, white fingers, very dry and very 
wiry of aspect, three or four rings threw the light of 
colored stones set in broad gold bands. His evening 
dress was faultless. One single stud, a cat’s eye 
surrounded by four black pearls, dotted the middle 
of his plain shirt bosom. An air of absolute ease and 
even nonchalance characterized his whole bearing. 

He lost somewhat of this natural or studied in- 
difference, however, when black, his favorite color 
as it appeared, began to lose steadily, without 
almost any intermission. Rapidly did the row of 
stacks in front of him, which he punted one at a 
time, with mechanical precision, dwindle down to 
five, four, three, two — one. Just as he was dividing 
that last heap into two equal lots to try his luck 
twice more, a hubub at the entrance door caused 
him to turn his head. 

The party, which made its way toward the table 
with merry remarks and hearty laughter, was, cer- 
tainly, a more boisterous one than the place was ac- 
customed to shelter, especially at so early an hour. 
Six men, with the undoubted stamp of fashionable 
vivenrs just out of a club dinner, followed a seventh 
visitor, with crisp gray hair and heavy mustache, 
who seemed to have led the march to the house. 
They all made for the roulette table, throwing their 
light overcoats to the three attendants who had 
rushed to meet the evidently welcome guests. 
Even MacGlory, the dignified host and proprietor, 
advanced toward the leader, and, extending his 
hand, whispered with a marked degree of respectful 
consideration : 


12 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ I hope I see you well, Mr. Laster? ” 

“ Quite well, my dear sir,” answered the portly 
looking club man, seating himself next to the for- 
eigner, and throwing across the table, on the red, a 
hundred-dollar bill ; and he added, with a smile 
which showed two rows of perfect teeth, small and 
pointed like those of a cat, “ These men have bet 
that they would see me ‘ broke 9 to-night.” 

A shrug of the shoulders from MacGlory showed 
how absurd the supposition was to him. “ Broke,” 
Mr. Laster, with every house out of twenty in New 
York city his property, or that of his sole nephew! 

“ Oh ! they don’t mean that I’ll have to go to the 
Island just yet; but they want to see my last cent 
of cash out of my pocket to-night ; only,” and he 
laughed a short, dry laughter, “ they don’t know 
what my card-case contains; that’s the rub, isn’t it, 
Lancelot ? ” 

A small, dark-featured man, fully twenty-five years 
the younger of the two, answered grimly : 

“ Of course, you may swamp us easily, but not 
to-night, though. It’s not your day of luck.” 

The older man looked at him with a quickly sup- 
pressed start, and opened his lips as if to ask a 
question. His face paled slightly ; but he simply 
retorted : 

“ I don’t know about that ; and your pony may 
not be so very long before changing owners.” 

In fact, whilst they had been chatting thus, three 
hundred dollars in blue chips had found their way 
in front of Mr. Laster. These last three turns of 
the red had wiped off the remaining chips of the 


8l8 BROADWAY 


13 


foreigner, who now stood up, regretfully looking on. 
He had evidently forgotten the time and his ap- 
pointment. 

“ I stop at one thousand — that’s the wager, is it 
not ?” asked Laster. Six voices acquiesced merrily. 
Three of the new comers had sat down to tackle 
chance on their own account. The others, Lancelot 
among them, gazing silently. 

Six more reds. One more now, and the fixed 
limit is reached. Just before the ball was launched 
on its course, the stranger, as if fascinated by Mr. 
Laster’s extraordinary run of luck, pulled out his 
pocket-book, a dark green case, with a ducal coronet 
of raised gold in the corner, and placing it on the 
table called out: 

“ One hundred dollars on the red.” 

“ Thirteen, black,” called almost at once the calm 
voice of the Major. The young man blanched to 
the lips. He made no move toward picking up and 
opening his pocket-book to settle his loss, but an- 
swered the questioning look of the dealer by saying 
in as steady a voice as he could command : 

“ One hundred dollars more on the red.” 

The host had advanced a few steps, in answer to 
the Major’s mute appeal, and was about passing the 
usual stern decision against the reckless player, when 
a hand pulled slightly his coat-tail. It was Laster’s. 
The man understood — and the ball went twirling 
again, without a word of objection against the un- 
usual bet. 

“ Seventeen, black.” 

A twitch of anguish crossed, like a cicatrice, the 


14 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

white face of the foreigner. He pulled back the 
pocket-book toward him, opened it and made a poor 
pretense of inspecting its various compartments. 
The game had stopped, and not a sound was heard 
through the large room. With the same automatic 
gesture, the loser was now fumbling through his 
coat and waistcoat pockets, as if hunting for a stray 
bill or two. The agony on his face had become so 
acute and so visible that it almost took the by- 
standers’ breath away. Was this man, this gentle- 
man with the suave manners and the unquestionable 
stamp of the highest breeding, to be then and there 
kicked out of the room, with the epithets of swin- 
dler and cheat thrown at him by the infuriated pro- 
prietor? But no, his search has been successful. 
Out of a trousers’ pocket, his hand, which had disap- 
peared below the level of the table, brings out a roll 
of bills, two, three, four, five, hundred-dollar notes. 
A sigh escapes from everyone’s oppressed breast. 
Unable to control a sudden flush of triumph, the 
young man hands over the amount of his loss, and, 
with a smile and a bow, says to the dealer : 

‘'May I trouble you for five stacks, Major? Heavy 
betting disagrees with me.” 

In apparent indifference to all that had just taken 
place, Mr. Laster was going through the even tenor 
of his play, with an occasional joke thrown out 
defiantly to his amused companions. Five or six 
turns of the ball brought his winnings up to the 
agreed total, and with subdued applause from the 
losing bettors he rose and asked the dealer for 
eleven hundred dollars in cash. MacGlory brought 


8l8 BROADWAY 


15 


these over to him from the well stocked safe, remark- 
ing with a half comical sigh that his house could not 
well afford to fight such a Croesus as he. 

“ Bah ! ” answered the winner, pocketing the 
money nonchalantly, '‘You’ll get it all back out of 
me some time. I only wanted these ydungsters to 
give up tackling me when I feel as tip-top as I do 
to-day.” This with an involuntary look toward 
Lancelot, who seemed absorbed now by some ven- 
ture of his own upon the green cloth. 

The foreigner, in the meantime, had slowly 
doubled the hundred dollars he had exchanged for 
chips. Suddenly he pulled his watch again, appeared 
startled at the lateness of the hour, almost mid- 
night already, and with another of his courtly bows 
asked for his cash. Having called for a cigar and 
lighted it, he handed a silver dollar to Wash, and 
stepped quickly away from the table, with never a 
glance toward Laster. A few seconds later, he had 
moved to the door and passed his arms through the 
covert coat presented him by the servant in the 
ante-chamber. The noise of the outside door, clos- 
ing behind him, announced his final departure. 

Strolling toward the faro-players, Laster nodded 
familiarly to a stout, thick-set man, in his shirt 
sleeves, who bowed his bald head, heavily bearded, 
over the layout. 

“ How do, Baron?” queried Laster. 

The man, a German Jew by face and name, Baron 
Braunschweig, of the well known Frankfurt and 
New York firm of Gebriider Braunschweig, the dia- 
mond dealers and general loaners of money on good 


l6 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

security and at heavy interest, arose quickly at sight 
of the wealthy New Yorker, and advanced toward 
him, hand extended, having previously pocketed his 
chips with rapid and characteristic prudence. 

“Ich am all right, lieber Herr Laster,” answered 
the Jew, in his peculiar jargon, the shortness of his 
stays in the American metropolis never having 
allowed him to acquire more than a smattering of 
English. “ Ich hope dat mein Freund Ich find ganz 
well ?” 

“ Been here long, Baron ? I mean, in town?” 

“Nicht mehr than two weeks, lieber Herr Laster. 
You know Ich bin alvays on de vly.” 

The two men had walked a few steps away from 
the throng. Laster seemed to hesitate whether to 
ask his Jewish acquaintance, met in Paris or Baden 
a year or two before, a question that had just come 
to his mind. Finally, lowering his voice slightly, he 
said : 

“ Happen to know this young Frenchy-looking 
fellow who was playing roulette a moment ago? 
Rather a striking face, wasn’t it ? Think I have 
met him myself, abroad somewhere.” 

The beady eyes of the diamond dealer looked up 
furtively into the speaker’s face, as if he guessed 
that there might be more in the question than 
Laster cared to let him see. Right away the an- 
swer came : 

“ The young man Ich nicht personally know ; 
aber, Ich habe sein father, well enough beknown.” 

“ Now, Baron, for once in your life, do try and 
speak some sort of decent English ! ” exclaimed 


8l8 BROADWAY 1 7 

Laster, almost impatiently. The Jew went on, un- 
disturbed : 

“ Ja, Ich habe sein father twenty years known. 
He vas ein grosser Herr, ein Herzog, a Duke, as you 
say. 

“ What ! do you mean a real, live Duke ? Where 
from? England, France ? ” 

“ Veil, the name is French genug, aber the Duke 
he vas born and verheirated — married — in Russland, 
Russia, he vas ein emigre’s son — vous gomprenez? ” 

“ That is, I try to, quite hard. I think I do, 
though,” Laster answered with a short laugh. 
“And the name of this grand seigneur , O you well 
of information ? ” 

“ De name ? Alexandre Francois, due d’lmeguy. 
He, the daughter of a Grand-duke, by morganatic 
alliance, he married. That is der boy, Serge Alex- 
androvitch by name.” 

“ Only son, then ? ” 

“ Only son, und not ein sou marqut in der world. 
Ganz und gar ruined.” 

“ Gone to the bad, perhaps ? ” There was a sud- 
den light in the heavily-lidded eyes of Laster. 

“Ach ! ganz und gar so. Father no good. Son 
no good.” 

“ Don’t know what he is after, this side of the 
water ? ” 

“ Keine idee — perhaps marriage ? ” 

“ Ugly record ? ” 

The Baron hesitated ; then, desirous to please 
such a wealthy customer, perhaps the most gener- 
ous stone connoisseur in the States, he raised him- 

Cortlandt — 2 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


self up to his companion’s ear and whispered a few 
words. 

“ Whew ! ” whistled Laster, meditatively ; then, 
as if losing interest in the quest, he changed the 
subject to one more pleasant to the Jew. 

“ By the way, if you have anything extra fine to 
show me, in the way of large rubies — perfect stones, 
you know — you might drop in, to-morrow or next 
day, at the club. About seven o’clock, say. I am 
keeping bachelor’s hall just now. House closed. 
Madam gone to Europe for the season. Ta ta.” 
And with a friendly shake-hands, he left the de- 
lighted diamond-dealer to dream of some mirific sale 
of his choicest stock. 

Most of Mr. Laster’s friends had now ceased to 
play, and were calling for various refreshments be- 
fore wending their several ways toward their couches, 
virtuous or otherwise. With some more chaffing 
and laughing remarks, all but Lancelot took their 
leave and disappeared. They were not far off, when 
Laster tapped his friend on the shoulder — for the 
latter was still punting with rapt attention, as if ob- 
livious of his surroundings — and proposed a walk 
home, “ through the starry night.” 

Lancelot acquiescing at once, coats and hats were 
duly donned, and with a pleasant smile for obse- 
quious MacGlory, who had felt in duty bound to 
himself open the outer door to such an exalted per- 
sonage, the millionaire and the younger man strolled 
up the street toward Union Square. 

It was indeed a fine night, balmy as a summer 
day, although April was not yet ended. The pave- 


8l8 BROADWAY 


19 


ment, dry and almost clean — as New York pavements 
go — offered a tempting lane for active pedestrians, 
trained in most athletic sports, and such the two 
friends had always been. As they passed the tree- 
planted square, the lighted clock in front of Tiffany’s 
store marked half past twelve. The Broadway cars 
loaded with home bound theatre-goers jingled 
merrily along, while a policeman or two, on their 
monotonous beat, passed the promenaders, whom 
they well knew as prominent club men, with a gruff 
but hearty “ Good night, gentlemen.” Farther on, 
between Twenty-third and Thirty-second Streets, the 
many restaurants and cafes, brightly lit up, re- 
sounded with the merry chat and the happy laughter 
of their crowds of customers. It was New York’s 
night-life in its best period, a proper feeling of 
respectability still blended with pleasure-seeking pro- 
pensities; perhaps nearer than anything that can be 
found, this side of the water, to beautiful Paris’s noc- 
turnal recreations, the grossest forms of vice kept 
carefully hidden, however, in neighboring side- 
streets. A breath of animation permeated the whole 
atmosphere, and could not fail to pleasantly impress 
even the two blast high-livers who strolled on, 
past the brilliantly illumined shops, exchanging 
here and there a remark or a nod with some of their 
acquaintances. On they went, until they passed, 
not far from the Metropolitan Opera House, the 
facade of a large restaurant, newly refitted and beauti- 
fied, whose quaint, deep-orange decoration and origi- 
nal electric-lighting were, at the time, the talk of 
the town. Just before they reached the door of the 


20 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

place, a couple came out and turned toward the 
upper part of the city, walking leisurely a few steps 
ahead. 

In one of the couple, the man, Laster and Lance- 
lot instantly recognized the foreigner, so recently no- 
ticed by them at the Central Club. He went his way, 
almost a step from his companion, making no 
pretense to offer her his arm, but walking on, silently 
and doggedly as it were, his head bent, and both 
hands in his covert coat pockets. The woman at 
his side had begun right away to talk, in a rapid, 
peculiar language, that was certainly neither Eng- 
lish, French nor German. Whatever the tongue 
she used, her words were decidedly unpalatable to 
her hearer, for he exclaimed suddenly, in French : 

“ Si tu ne te tais pas.je te quitte sur place!" 

But this threat of leaving her to find her way 
unescorted only added more fuel to the fire of her 
wrath, and the excited beauty — for she must be 
handsome, judging from her exquisite shape — 
answered back, in a tone of unfeigned ill-humor, 
easily interpreted, if not understood, by the two 
Americans, walking but a few steps behind the 
quarreling pair. 

Just at that moment, a cab grazed the curbstone, 
hunting about for late customers. Accepting with- 
out a warning the jehu’s offer of a fare for “ gem’man 
and lady,” the young nobleman pulled the door 
open with a jerk, motioned his companion inside, 
and followed her, throwing to the cabman a few 
words of direction. 

“ That’s La Juwa,” remarked Lancelot, as the cab 


8 1 8 BROADWAY 


21 


turned sharply round and started on its trip down 
town. 

“ The Gypsy dancer at the * Gaiety’ ?” queried 
Laster. 

“The same. Been here two weeks now. You 
have seen her, I suppose ?” 

“ Indeed I have. Half a dozen times already. In 
fact, I never met anyone that compared with her, 
in her line.” 

“ Neither have I ; she is unique. I suppose that 
Frenchy fellow, who was misbehaving so shamefully 
to the poor girl just now, has come over in her 
wake.” 

“ As likely as not,” answered Laster, yawning. 

They were now turning into Forty-second Street, 
wending their steps toward Fifth Avenue. 

At the corner, Lancelot said good night, in his 
usual unconcerned way, and entered the fashionable 
flat-house wherein he kept bachelor’s hall : for Lance- 
lot Van Rassel counted yet among the marriageable 
catches of the “gilded” or at least “silvered” 
youth. With a nod and a “ Tata, old man,” Laster 
left him on the door-sill, and continued up the 
Avenue as far as Fiftieth Street. A few doors east 
from the main thoroughfare, he reached a discreet 
looking English-basement house, so small and well 
kept that it reminded one of the doll-like mansions 
rented so dear around Mayfair, London. He took 
a latch-key out of his vest pocket, and fitted it to 
the lock, muttering to himself : 

“ I might have found a worse investment for my 
five hundred ! ” 


II 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 

“ Here she comes ! Here she comes! ” 

There was a deep murmur, like the howling of the 
wind through the pine-covered beach ; then a long, a 
thundering clapping of hands ; and on the raised plat- 
form, between the delicately cut-out wings of scene- 
ry, all silvered and painted gauze, a woman glided 
leisurely forward, and stood there, motionless and 
smileless, looking down on the applauding crowd. 

The hall was wide and deep, gaudily decorated, 
and with a row of tiny boxes instead of a gallery, 
each box enclosed in half-drawn plush hangings of a 
dead gold hue. In spiral clouds, the smoke of to- 
bacco rose up to the clusters of incandescent lights 
dotting the dome-shaped ceiling, whilst the clinking 
of glasses and the voices of the drinkers drowned 
the first chords of the starting orchestra. This is 
the “ Gaiety,” the latest and best patronized New 
York imitation of the London Music-halls or the 
Paris Cafes-concerts, and the woman who now 

awaits the leader’s signal is the world-famed Bohe- 

( 22 ) 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 23 

mian dancer, La Juwa , the star attraction of this 
year’s season. 

Before and since, many a troop of so-called Bo- 
hemian performers have trod the stages of American 
variety theatres ; none of them ever honestly entitled 
to the proud appellation of Bohemians or Tziganes. 
And although more than one society lady mani- 
fested an almost dangerous enthusiasm for this lion- 
maned violinist or that heavily mustached cymbalum 
player, the sad fact remains that their adoration and 
their jeweled offerings were thrown at the feet of 
ill-disguised Teutons. So much for these cast-off 
Leipzig or Stuttgart virtuosi , parading, under false 
pretenses, as the sons of that extraordinary people, 
the very origin of which is the embodiment of a 
dread mystery. 

Many are the names they are known by, the world 
over ; Romichal the only one they accept. Many 
the lands they are supposed to. have sprung out of; 
Egypt, the Egypt of the Pharaohs, the sphinxes and 
the pyramids, the only motherland their traditions 
admit. “ Our fathers were the sorcerers Moses 
fought against,” is the boast of their leaders ; and 
they add, in their deep, impressive voices : “ We 
come from a far-away country, where the secrets of 
the world’s existence are buried in a fathomless 
cave under a giant mountain, a dragon standing 
guard over them for ever and ever.” 

And sorcerers they have indeed remained; sorcer- 
ers in look, in gesture, in word and song, in their in- 
sight of man’s future, in their composing of philters 
and draughts that can rejoice or destroy the human 


24 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


body and the human soul. The wisdom of the 
Brahmins is no mystery to them, nor the science of 
the old-time transmuters; but, in this age of skep- 
tical prosaism and money-getting activity, that grave 
race has turned its very strangeness into lucre-ac- 
quiring, and plays upon the world’s gaping curiosity 
as do its untrained fiddlers upon the old, rickety in- 
struments their fathers left them as sole inheritance. 

Thus it is with the bands of Hungarian and Russian 
Tziganes. Thus it was with Maroussia la Juwa — in 
plain English, Mary the Gypsy, the favorite — the 
“craze,” as they say — of the pleasure-seeking New 
Yorkers of that year. 

La Juwa may have been twenty-three or twenty- 
five years of age, and, if she is to be depicted in one 
word, she was undoubtedly ugly. A small head, 
with a low, contracted brow, beady eyes of intense 
black, thick protruding lips, and a nose which had 
more of the Kalmouck type than is generally found 
in her race. The expression of the face was severe, 
even Karsh, almost cruel ; and the curve of the mouth, 
the nostrils, disclosed none of those vibrations which 
correspond with the softer sensations of woman’s 
inner being. Such was La Juwa at rest. Never a 
smile, never a look that gave forth, or called for, 
sympathy, never a moist film over the brightness of 
the shining eyes — a true reflection of some metallic 
mirror. 

But La Juwa in action, La Juwa dancing, was an- 
other creature from La Juwa at rest. Look, and 
listen ; she begins now. After the first few bars, the 
orchestra is silenced, and behind her, crouched rather 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 25 

than seated upon the last step of the background stairs, 
you perceive a strange being, a small boy or dwarf, 
a tambourine in his hands, and clad in something 
that looks, to the untrained eye, like a multicolored 
and shapeless bundle of rags. Beside this uninvit- 
ing garb, you see nothing of him but an enormous 
head, all black hair and eyes, and long bony hands 
striking his drum, around which hang bunches of 
amulets, brass rings, scarabs, coppers and coins. 

And then La Juwa touches with her lips a slender 
double-piped flute or clarionet, and blowing softly, 
without an effort or a contraction, begins, almost 
imperceptibly, to move her feet to the sound of her 
own music. Her thick braids, coiled over her head 
in a huge mass, are held together by a broad, dia- 
dem-like, gold band ; and over her short clinging 
skirt of red and yellow Indian stuffs, quaintly pieced 
together, a silver spangled muslin veil wraps her up 
from neck to ankle, attached here and there with 
some enormous gold-headed pins. There is no in- 
decent exposure of limbs or bust, although the arms 
are bare, — the firm, round, bronze-tinted arms ; 
although the feet, — the slender, Arab-like feet — 
are bare also — yes, bare up to the swelling of 
the limb, where the skirt reaches and envelops her 
nudity. 

To the music of tambourine and flute, now soft 
and almost inaudible, now furious and raging like a 
simoom over the sand-hillocks of the Sahara, but 
always confined to five or six notes modulated in a 
tone of unspeakable melancholy — she dances— at 
first in a slow, stately rhythm, which hardly displaces 


26 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


her feet. As the rhythm grows wilder, the supple 
figure, so perfect in shape and form as to have 
caused the despair of many a famed sculptor, undu- 
lates with increasing and more passionate intensity, 
whilst the feet also, within that same little square of 
ground, begin to accentuate their movement, as if 
away to the trysting-place, breathless with adoring 
expectation. And the sombre resonance of the 
tambourine seems the voice of the lover she is rush- 
ing to, — manly, protecting, valiant. 

It seems a very little thing to describe, these five 
minutes of Bohemian dance, and indeed from such 
a description no idea can be formed of the extraor- 
dinary effect this performance produced upon the 
public — that common-place, uncultured public of a 
pretentious variety show. Still, the fact was there : 
the crowd sat spell-bound, in absolute silence, al- 
most breathless, hypnotized. For La Juwa was not 
only playing the flute, dancing and swinging her 
shapely body, she was looking ; and those two eyes, 
so small, so inexpressive, so metallic, just a moment 
ago, now seemed to fill the whole hall with the 
fatidic splendor of their radiant pupils. The thick 
lips also had parted, and a smile, the smile of some- 
one in a trance who gazes into the limitless vistas 
of the world beyond, shone like the awe-inspiring 
smile of a supernatural apparition. There was noth- 
ing theatrical, stagy, conventional, already seen, in 
those five minutes of gypsy incantation ; it was like 
the opening ajar of an ever-closed gate, suddenly re- 
vealing some of the rites of the ancient mysteries of 
Egyptian worship, or perhaps the hieratic dances 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 27 

of the priestesses of Vishnoo in the Sanctuary of 
their god. Softer and softer, lower and lower, like 
threads of infinite tenuity, grew the sound of the 
flute and the grumbling of the tamboarine ; and the 
little feet hardly moved now ; and the voluptuous- 
ness of the head and bust had the weakness of sa- 
tiety ; and the eyes gradually extinguished their fire ; 
and the ecstatic smile vanished from the rich, red 
lips — and, like a huge butterfly, arose the coupled 
wings of the stage screen. La Juwa was gone. 

Awake at last, and madly howling, the public 
rises like one man and applauds, applauds, applauds. 
In answer to the stamping, the clapping, the shriek- 
ing, the stage-manager steps in front of the drop, 
and says : 

“By a special clause in her contract, La Juwa is 
to appear but once a day, and never to acknowledge 
calls. I have the honor of thanking the public, in 
her name/’ 

A gesture starts the orchestra on the next num- 
ber, and the growling of the displeased audience is 
soon drowned under the banging and bugling of the 
“ Boulanger March.” 

The “behind the scenes” of the New York 
“Gaiety” is not a thing of beauty, albeit it may 
seem a “ joy forever ” to the love-sick Johnnies or 
the well primed stock-brokers or politicians admitted 
within its mysteries. You penetrate into these hal- 
lowed precincts through the mercenary courtesy of 
a Dutch Cerberus, who collects with an impassive 
mien the dollars of the privileged ones. After 


28 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


crossing a dingy, ill-smelling hall, one reaches 
a large room, all tapestried with a collection of 
champagne corks, and devoted to the consumption 
of the amber fluid. Therein, around a half-dozen 
clammy tables, and close, too close, to the bass 
drums of the orchestra, the elect are allowed to call 
for their favorite brand, treating, with boisterous 
merriment, some of the minor female attractions, 
not on duty just then, but clad in their diminutive 
costumes as Cupids, Odalisques or Amazons. At 
the farther end of the chamber, a narrow door leads 
to the performers’ dressing-rooms, tiny cabins built 
of boards and cotton stuff, but not opened to the 
visitors’ investigations. Close to that door sits, all 
alone, as if keeping guard, a silent, taciturn man, 
with the abject features and manner of the Polish 
Jew, undoubtedly the most repulsive of his race. 

His name is Simon Ralowitch, and his, the honor 
of managing Maroussia La Juwa, through her pro- 
tracted foreign tour. Isaac Staffel, another Hebrew, 
a Swiss several times bankrupt, and at present the 
part proprietor of the “ Gaiety,” is now walking 
toward him, a roll of bills in his hands : 

“ Is dat all you trink, lieber Herr Ralowitch ? ” 
says Staffel, as he sits down in front of the manager 
of his star. “ Ha ! Ha! Ich see. You will your 
money haben pefore intulging — always pisness, pis- 
ness ! ” and the stout, uncouth exploiter of variety 
shows laughs a fat, conciliating laughter. 

“ Ja wohl, Herr Staffel,” answers the Pole, as his 
slender, dirty fingers stretch intuitively toward the 
money. “ Pisness pefore blessure, as you say.” 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 29 

“ Veil, Veil,” cries out Staffel, “ We will both at the 
same dime haben,” and bringing down his heavy 
fist upon the table, he calls to the waiter, the com- 
plaisant Mercury of Mesdames les Artistes ; “ Hein- 
rich, eine kleine Flasche, schnell.” 

The receipt is ready, the money also ; one signa- 
ture is given, five hundred dollars handed over, and 
the two men are just about enjoying the sparkling 
liquid, a very fair imitation of the Widow’s best — 
at least the cork and label are — when the door is 
opened with a jerk, and in steps La Juwa herself, 
dressed in her street gown, her hat on, and pulling 
on her gloves. Her quick eyes survey the place, 
and, disappointed, she asks Ralowitch, who gets up 
with a great display of smirking bows and smiles : 

u Not come yet ? ” 

She speaks Russian, and her voice has a strong, 
guttural resonance, quite in keeping with her whole 
person. 

“ Not yet, gnadige Fraulein,” answers the Jew, 
in German. 

She stamps her foot moodily. 

“ It’s half past eleven, though, is it not?” 

“ Nearer twelve, Ihre Gnade.” 

“ I am not going to wait, Simon ; take your hat 
and walk to my hotel with me.” 

The well-trained manager silently obeys, leaving 
regretfully behind 'this nice glass of wine that cost 
him nothing. With a nod to the proprietor, and 
not a glance for the painted beauties scattered 
about the room in gleeful flirtations, La Juwa fol- 
lows Ralowitch to the outer door. Behind her, the 


30 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


jeering remarks and the jealous bickerings hardly 
await the closing of the door. But just as the two, 
star and manager, emerge into the filthy back street, 
crowded with the empty carts of a beer-bottling 
concern, they meet a tall, blonde gentleman, 
in a light covert coat, and a cigarette in his 
mouth, walking with the nonchalant air of a born 
grandee. 

“ That’s the way you come for me, Serge ! ” ex- 
claims, in a loud, harsh voice, the infuriated beauty, 
addressing the new-comer. 

“ Well, yes,” he answers in French, “ mieux vaut 
tard que jamais , ma chere .” 

“ Some night, it shall be trop tard , mon cherj is 
the snappy retort. Then, taking the young man’s 
arm, she says to the manager, “ That’ll do, Simon. 
Come to-morrow at ten, with your accounts and the 
money.” 

“Yes, surely, gnadige Fraulein,” answersthe Jew, 
bowing himself almost double. And, hat in hand, 
he adds, looking toward the new escort of his star : 
“ Ich empfehle mich, Excellenz.” Not waiting for 
a sign of recognition which he expects not, he 
returns chucklingly to his interrupted potations. 

Just three years before, almost to a day, Serge 
Alexandrovitch Francois de Valois, due d’lm^guy, 
on a mild April night, very like this one, indeed, was 
wending his way from the English Club, the swell 
St. Petersburg Club, to his house near the Anitchkoff 
bridge. As he walked along the river, in the dead 
silence of the starlit night, he stopped suddenly, as 


3i 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE GAIETY ” 

if a final resolve had entered his head. He looked 
down upon the water, black and still, and a brusque 
movement of his might have caused a passer-by 
to believe that the next minute was to see this 
princely looking young chap taking a plunge into 
eternity. 

And the casual on-looker would have believed this 
all the more, had he known how the events of the 
last two hours had transformed this grand seigneur 
into an outcast and a branded man. By a jury of 
his peers, in a fair though secret trial, which had left 
him no loop-hole of escape, this scion of one of the 
greatest French houses, allied through his mother’s 
people to the imperial dynasty of Russia, had been 
convicted, in connivance with a paid valet, of smug- 
gling, and using for a year and over, marked packs 
of cards in the gaming room of his club. A recent 
scandal in the Paris Cercle de la Rue Royale, and a 
similar and almost simultaneous attempt by a bogus 
baron in the famous Cercle de F Union Artistique, 
had attracted the vigilance of the English Club 
Committee, with what results Serge d’lm^guy now 
knew, to his irredeemable condemnation. There was 
indeed for him but one, one single door open, a door 
hinted at, more than once, that night, by his quon- 
dam friends, his judges now, and that exit was — 
Death. 

It is a sad truth, however, that few, if any, card- 
sharpers among society men ever resort to suicide, 
when the slow but sure hand of retributive justice 
touches them on the shoulder. Unlike those bolder 
criminals who go through their careers of lawless- 


32 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

ness “ with their life in their hands,” the cheat har- 
bors but a cowardly heart under the garb and 
manners of the brilliant gentleman. Soldiers even, 
soldiers brave in battle and intrepid in the most 
reckless onslaughts, when fatally dragged down the 
precipitous slope of such scoundrelism, seem to for- 
get how little value they used to set upon this immor- 
tal breath, and clutch at their dishonored life as at a 
treasure worth keeping. The more so, of course, 
when the series of deceits and crimes run for months 
back, and have slowly corrupted their author to the 
very marrow of his bones. 

And as such had been the case with Serge 
dTmeguy, we can hardly be surprised to see him 
start, again, along the river-bank, walking slowly and 
listlessly toward his home. 

Perhaps the young Duke — he was hardly more 
than thirty years old at the time — might not have 
appeared to the discriminating philosopher abso- 
lutely responsible for his detestable actions. “ Blood 
will tell,” they say. Indeed it does, and the evil 
ways of the fathers permeate as the poison of 
Nessus the very fibres of their progeny. When, 
sixteen years earlier, on the eve of his coming 
of age, Serge dTmeguy had to assume mourning 
for his father, Duke Alexandre Francois Louis de 
Valois dTmeguy, he buried on that day a pretty 
complete specimen of the worst titled scamps of 
the eighteenth century. Born during the last years 
of Louis XVI’s reign, carried away into foreign 
countries by his grandfather, the Emigre — one of the 
boon companions of Louis XV, the most profligate 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 33 

of all the Bourbon kings — Duke Alexander had 
known, at the dissolute court of the Russian Czars, 
no other training than that of a nobleman who re- 
gards his own pleasure as his sole law. Married at 
three different times, with wives of various nation- 
alities, whom he had buried — poor creatures — after 
turning their lives into regular infernos, he had 
finally been gathered to his worthy ancestors, at the 
venerable age of eighty-three, leaving behind him 
but one descendant, that Serge of our story, the 
issue of his marriage with Princess Olga Bolenska, 
the spouse of his old age. 

The late Duke had taken good care, besides, to 
bestow upon his heir a very complicated, and no less 
unsatisfactory, state of affairs, pecuniarily speaking. 
In fact, although the old nobleman’s estate, added 
to what remained of Princess Bolenska’s for- 
tune, presented yet a fair front, the whole edifice 
was so thoroughly eaten up by overdue mortgages 
and usurious debts, that it stood erect solely on 
account of that legal and commercial fiction which 
surrounds fortunes once of such enormous propor- 
tions. In a word, young Duke Serge had soon to 
be told by his stewards and solicitors that he was 
next door to a ruined man. About the same time, 
however, a maternal uncle’s demise threw into the 
young man’s lap a million roubles argent , so that he 
declined entering into any details concerning possi- 
ble settlement of the paternal inheritance, and just 
started on his career of joyeux vivenr. He had of 
course received his education at the school of the 
Pages of the Czarina, and had entered at eighteen 

Cortlandt— 3 


34 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

the Regiment of Chevaliers-Gardes, that tlite of the 
dlite of Russian cavalry. But his health having suf- 
fered somewhat, toward his twentieth year, he 
solicited and obtained an unlimited furlough, as 
much under pretext of settling his late father’s 
affairs as for the purpose of recovering his forces. 
With the money of the avuncular inheritance, he 
traveled about, paying prolonged visits to the prin- 
cipal capitals of Europe ; Paris, Vienna and London 
dividing most of his time and attention. Unable 
and unwilling to resist any of those temptations 
that attack the purse even more than the morals, he 
had reached quickly enough the end of his million 
roubles. The rouble argent — so called because it 
represents but very little silver indeed, in spite of 
its nominal value of eighty cents — was then at its 
lowest ebb, being hardly worth, outside of the Czar’s 
dominions, more than forty or forty-two cents. In 
other words, the million roubles meant half a mill- 
ion, something less than four hundred thousand 
dollars, and one can easily imagine that this son, 
grand-son and great-grandson of illustrious spend- 
thrifts was not to be outdone in his reckless prodi- 
gality. The end of five years saw Serge penniless, 
but living on exactly the same scale of princely 
magnificence. The expiration of the next five 
years found him, on that April night, ruined to 
the core, dishonored forever, and bowed down 
under a double weight of infamy and financial 
destitution. For the game was indeed up, now, 
and the very roof over his head was not to be his a 
day longer. 


behind the scenes of the “ gaiety” 35 

Being no fool, in spite of his inherited and ac- 
quired moral crookedness, Duke Serge had very 
shrewdly organized his whole existence, since he 
had lost sight of the very last of his roubles — we 
mean those roubles that really belonged to him. A 
clever, if complicated, system of straw men had kept 
out of his creditors’ hands pretty nearly everything 
the Duke had lately enjoyed as his own : house, 
furniture, horses and carriages. His coachman 
owned his teams and turnouts ; his valet, his furni- 
ture ; his cook, the silver and crockery still resplen- 
dent with the coat of arms of that last rotten branch 
of the Royal Valois race. The private secretary, with- 
out whom no great Russian house is considered 
properly officered, held in his name the title-deed of 
the house itself — a very valueless parchment, by the 
way, considering the extravagant amount of mort- 
gages plastering the ducal mansion. So that, in 
truth, the unimportant jewels the Duke may have 
had about him, that night, and the few hundred- 
rouble notes his cigarette case or his private desk 
may have contained just then, constituted the sum 
total of his worldly possessions. Matters had only 
been kept going of late by the proceeds of his 
treacherous, though unimportant, gains at cards, 
and through the constantly repeated rumors of some 
“ big marriage ” which the Duke adroitly threw 
about, among his most pressing creditors, as an 
irresistible bait. No need to add, that the very next 
morning would remove forever this tantalizing possi- 
bility from the horizon of the exasperated creditors, 
and that, before evening, the whole fragile edifice 


36 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

would fall upon their debtor’s shoulders, with a 
sickening thud. No wonder, then, that the sole pre- 
occupation of Serge d’lmeguy as he let himself in, 
by the help of his tiny pass-key, was to find out an 
immediate retreat against the terrific storm of the 
morrow. 

In other countries, the question might have been 
solved in an instant, since less than one hundred 
roubles can bring a man through, by train, from 
Petersburg to Berlin, and farther. But Russia is a 
very carefully administered Empire, indeed, and its 
citizens are not supposed — and not allowed, for that 
matter — to take such brusque French leave from 
their accustomed haunts. A passport has to be ob- 
tained, and a good reason furnished for an absence 
from the White Father’s realm. 

Creditors are also consulted, and their displeasure is 
apt to bring about a lot of very unpalatable compli- 
cations. Besides, it takes time to secure the neces- 
sary permits and passes, and time Duke Serge had 
not any more at his disposal than he had honor 
or money left to his name. 

He walked up the broad staircase, fully lighted up 
yet, and at the foot of which had been slumbering, on 
a large oaken settee, his own valet, now awakened 
with a start and silently following his master to the 
sleeping chamber above. Heavy Persian rugs were 
thrown here and there, over the shining floor inlaid 
with curious woods ; Circassian and Asiatic armor 
and weapons of all sizes and shapes decorated the 
halls and passages, between broad panels of ancient 
Flanders or Gobelins tapestry. In his own room, — a 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 37 

real Parisian cocotte s private apartment — heavy silk 
hangings covered the walls, and fell around the low 
Flemish bedstead and about the three wide win- 
dows. At the farther end of the room, a narrow 
cabinet of plain, massive ebony stood guard over 
the luxurious rococo furniture, with the sternness 
of an old Roman soldier gazing on the decadence 
of a great nation. Strange to say — and that ren- 
ders the image all the more striking — this ebony 
cabinet had been in the d’lmeguys’ possession since 
the day when Francois de Valois, the chief and 
founder of the family, the well beloved illegitimate 
son of Francis I of France, had received it from his 
royal father, with the Letters-Patent creating him 
and his heirs-at-law, in the order of primogeniture, 
Dukes of Imeguy and Peers of the realm. And, 
within its drawers and shelves, there now lay these 
very same parchments, in their dusty cloth wrap- 
pings, and the great seals affixed by the Lord 
Chancellor of France hanging from their silken 
cords. 

The valet summarily dismissed, after having set 
agoing an odd-shaped silver samovar, the Duke 
began to prepare with minute attention a brew of 
his favorite Caravan beverage. The exquisite 
fumes escaping from the golden-brown fluid soon 
filled the lofty apartment, and tumbler after tumbler 
of the Asiatic nectar found their way down the 
thirsty throat of the nobleman. And thus he sat, 
in his evening suit, sipping in apparent contentment 
and in deep meditation, this drink fit for gods or 
kings. 


38 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


Suddenly he rose, as if struck by the very thought 
he had been hunting after so long. And he mur- 
mured, whilst a look of peculiar relief spread over 
his features : 

“ Maroussia ! ” 

The name seemed to act like magic, and to change 
the irresolute young man into a steady, decided 
man of action. He walked to the ebony cabinet, 
opened a secret drawer on the right, and pulled out 
a card-case filled with bank-notes and a few memo- 
randa which appeared to have needed secrecy ; these 
he pocketed carefully. Then he emptied, in a jerky 
way, every receptacle of the cabinet, piling on the 
floor documents, letters, souvenirs of olden days 
and, doubtless, tokens of expired love. The whole, 
with impatient hands, he gathered and threw 
bodily, pell-mell, into the blazing log-fire. A few 
minutes sufficed to erase from the face of the earth 
the royal letters patent, and the feminine billets- 
doux — all that made, but a few hours before, the 
life of this young man worth living. This was 
Serge dTmeguy’s only way to understand suicide. 

He passed, for a short instant, within the daintily 
arranged precincts of his dressing-room, and returned 
clad in a travelling suit of English material and cut ; 
a soft felt hat on his head, a pair of double soled 
Piccadillys on his feet, over his arms an overcoat 
lined with one of those marvellously light furs sold 
only in Russia and at enormous prices. In his 
hand, he held a black leather dressing-case, trimmed 
with gold. Without a look behind him, without a 
sign, without the faintest appearance of regret, 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 39 

Serge dTmeguy walked to the door on the way out 
of his ancestral home. As his eyes glanced down 
toward the bag, he noticed something that caused 
him to stop. On the table near by, a sharp poniard, 
used as a paper cutter, was thrown across the latest 
number of the Vie Parisienne . Laying the bag 
beside it, he seized the knife, and with the sharp 
blade he wrenched out of their settings in the 
leather, the monogram and ducal coronet that shone, 
in their golden beauty, as the insignia of their 
owner. 

The broken fragments fell on the floor at his feet ; 
as he wended his way toward the door, toward an 
exile from which no one ever returns, he crushed 
these poor symbols under his tread. Three 
minutes later, he had left the house, and was 
walking briskly in the direction of the Krestowski 
Island. 

The night had grown darker ; a thin layer of 
clouds veiled the radiance of the moon and stars. 
As Serge was glancing right and left, in evident 
quest of a vagabond droschki, he heard, but a few 
yards ahead of him, a noise of chatting voices. He 
seemed to recognize the talkers, for he stopped 
suddenly and sought a momentary shelter under the 
deep porch of a near-by mansion. 

Three men passed him, a minute or two later, and 
he thought he heard his name pronounced with 
contemptuous pity. They were club-men who had 
counted for years among his most habitual com- 
panions ; they turned their eyes toward the Bo- 
lenski Palace as they walked past it, puffing their 


40 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

cigarettes. These were all the pall-bearers and all 
the funeral rites Serge was ever to have, at the 
burial of his youth. 

Just then, an ishvoshnick hove in sight. Alow 
whistle brought his smail vehicle and his long 
maned and long tailed horse along the curb, oppo- 
site the Duke, who stepped in quickly, throwing to 
the man an address about three miles off. 

“ Karosho ” (all right), was the obedient answer, 
and the droschki started on a lively trot. 

Twenty-five minutes later it stopped in front of a 
two-storied, modern cottage, neatly ensconced among 
trees and shrubberies, yet leafless, but giving evi- 
dence of being carefully kept. The shutters were 
closed tightly, and no sign of life escaped from the 
small detached building. On the other side of the 
road, one of the innumerable canals which connect 
the various branches of the Neva spread its deep, 
dull waters. The stillness was so absolute as to in- 
spire one with a sort of awe, so strange it all seemed, 
and so far away from .boisterous, ever-awake Peters- 
burg. Without showing any surprise at this state of 
things, the Duke handed the ishvoshnick his fare and 
a royal trinkgeld besides, and stood, satchel in hand, 
upon the sidewalk, until the droschki had disap- 
peared, on its return toward a more civilized region. 
Then he entered the grounds, and walked toward 
the back part of the house. A small, one-panelled 
door could be distinguished faintly. He reached it, 
without any affectation of mystery, and just knocked 
three times in quick succession. The last knock 
had hardly struck the wood, when the door glided 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 41 

on its hinges, and the Duke was admitted without 
parley. Once inside, and the door closed behind 
him, a match was struck by the visitor himself, and 
he lighted a paraffine candle placed upon the only 
table that stood in the room — a very tiny and very 
scantily furnished parlor, with no inhabitant in 
sight to greet the new comer. A Turkish divan, 
very wide and very low, ran along three sides of the 
chamber, and it took Serge several minutes to dis- 
cover, in the furthest and darkest corner, crouched 
in a half-slumbering attitude, a dark, dwarfish look- 
ing individual, boy, man or imp, who doubtless 
had come to the door in answer to the masonic-like 
raps. 

“ La Juwa has not yet returned from the Demidoff 
Garden, Ossip Stepanovitch ? ” queried the Duke, 
hardly looking at this modern Caliban. 

“ Not yet, Serge Alexandrovitch,” was the curt 
answer. 

The boy or man or imp had not deigned to rise at 
the sound of the imperious voice. A few copper 
implements which close attention allowed one to 
distinguish in the vicinity of this singular guardian 
of the place, and the peculiar pungency of the at- 
mosphere, could leave no doubt to a connoisseur as 
to what was the cause of his torpid indifference : 
Ossip Stepanovitch had just been “ hitting the 
pipe,” and was about succumbing to the blissful in- 
fluence of opium smoking. 

As if realizing the uselessness of a further inter- 
rogatory, Serge dTmeguy silently disposed of hat, 
overcoat and satchel, and stretched himself beside 


42 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

his belongings, upon the wide divan, as far as he 
possibly could from Ossip. Was it the opium vapor 
in the stuffy room that acted upon his brain, or 
simply the reaction after the terrible emotions of 
the evening that called for immediate recupera- 
tion — whatever the cause, the effect was soon mani- 
fest, for five minutes later, the Duke lay there, 
breathing heavily, and sunk in the deepest of 
slumbers. 

When he woke up, the first rays of dawn were 
filtering through the closed shutters, the dwarf had 
vanished from his favorite corner, and the eyes of 
Serge d’lmeguy met the deep, questioning gaze of 
Maroussia la Juwa, standing before him in the full 
costume and heavy jewelry of a wealthy daughter of 
her race. She could not have been home very 
long, for her cloak and hood had not been thrown 
off yet, and it almost seemed as if that commanding 
start of hers had called back the sleeper to the con- 
sciousness of things. 

Maroussia la Juwa counted, at the time, as the 
leading attraction of one of those troops of Bohe- 
mian dancers and singers whom it is customary to in- 
clude in the programme of every first-class Russian 
revelry. When the lavishly appointed suppers of 
the gay youths, or of the no less gay old rakes, 
begin to weaken in boisterous excitement, the head- 
waiter obeys the host's silent signal, and ushers the 
crowd into a dimly lighted room reserved for the 
coming show. Large easy chairs and sofas are 
strewn about, hap-hazard, and each of the noisy 
pleasure-seekers chooses the corner and seat he 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 43 

fancies. A curtain at the further end of the 
chamber is then pulled aside, and the performers, a 
dozen or so, stalwart men and dusky maidens, are 
revealed, picturesquely grouped and ready to obey 
their transient master’s commands. It is only fair 
to state that the songs are generally proper and 
the dances decent ; and that, as a rule, no contact 
is established between actors and audience, the 
Romichal’s jealousy being reputed of the most 
dangerous kind. Still gold pieces have been 
known to lure many a Tzigane girl away from her 
father, lover, or husband, and to bring about a short 
liaison with some one of the hated Christians. 
But the mercenary nature of such arrangements is 
so cruelly apparent, that these intrigues but seldom 
overlap a night or a week’s time. It may just as 
well be stated right here that Maroussia La Juwa 
had never been, so far, even the passing mistress of 
Serge d’lmeguy. Whatever tie existed between 
the two, had its origin not in love — as yet — but, 
on the part of the girl, in a wild, unbounded passion 
of gratitude. 

The story was but a couple of weeks old, and 
although trite enough, it illustrates strikingly the 
ways and manners of St. Petersburg’s gay crowd. 
One night, after a gala-representation at the Theatre 
Michel, Serge had accepted an invitation to supper 
at Doniol, extended to him by some of his old com- 
rades of the Chevaliers-Gardes. Delayed by some 
other social function, it was already quite deep into 
the night before the Duke had been able to wend 
his steps toward the famous restaurant. He was on 


44 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

foot, and walked along the Great Morskaia Street at 
a brisk pace, when he noticed a kind of quarreling 
going on in front of one of the swell eating-houses 
generally frequented by the richer class of Jews. 
His way led in that direction, and he was not long 
before discovering what the brawl was about. A 
few steps from the door of the night-hostelry, a 
Tzigane woman wrapped up from head to foot in a 
loose black mantle, was strenuously resisting the 
efforts of a ruffianly dandy, decked out in fine pur- 
ple and linen, and very much bediamonded, who 
added to his drunken invitation to “ Come in and 
have a good time/’ a few choice insults, in answer 
to her vigorous struggling and kicking. The scene 
was decidedly outrageous, and it took Serge but 
little time to seize the disgusting ruffian by the 
nape, and to throw him into the gutter. A few of 
his victim's co-religionists, who had been enjoying 
the fray at a distance, having manifested some in- 
clination to show fight, the Duke, who had in his 
blood the inborn contempt for all such vermin, quiet- 
ly stated, in a resolute voice, that the next man would 
be accommodated just as the first had been. No 
valiant son of Israel answering the challenge, Serge 
d’lmeguy had whistled an ishvoshnick, and brought 
to her door the rescued beauty. A few words. only 
had been exchanged on the way ; but, as the Duke 
courteously kissed the little, sunburnt hand, its 
owner said in that guttural tone that seemed to is- 
sue from her very soul : 

“ Serge Alexandrovitch, I am thy slave for life." 

With a smile at the thought of her exaggerate 


BEHIND THE SCENES OB THE “ GAIETY ” 4$ 

gratitude, the Duke, who felt no taste whatever for 
a passing love-affair of the kind, had simply 
answered, as he drove off : 

“That’s all right, my dear girl ; I’ll remember.” 

And on the night of his ultimate defeat and 
degradation, he had remembered, and now came to 
his debtor to claim the fulfillment of her promise. 
He knew her to be independent of kith or kin, hav- 
ing no family-ties binding her to the troop she 
performed with nightly, and living all by her- 
self in that, little cottage on the Krestowski Island. 
He knew also that Maroussia la Juwa was free from 
all love entanglements, as well among her people as 
amidst the lions of Petersburg swelldom ; such 
prominent women’s history being noted and com- 
mented upon, day by day, by the men whose sole 
business is pleasure. In that lonely house by the 
canal, she received no one, and lived in absolute 
solitude with her tambourine accompagnateur , Ossip 
Stepanovitch, the Quasimodo of this Esmeralda, 
but a Quasimodo in love with his opium pipe only. 
In that house, Serge would go and live for the short 
time needed to prepare his departure from the 
Russian dominions. The shelter was secure from 
untimely discovery, as luck had it that he never 
mentioned to his boon companions his night adven- 
ture in defense of the dancer. Of Maroussia’s glad 
consent, he was sure beforehand, and when he sim- 
ply stated to her — without further details — that it 
was necessary for him to keep out of the way for a 
little while, that silent daughter of an ever perse- 
cuted race, showed no desire to know the why and 


46 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


wherefore of the thing, but simply repeated, with 
singular aptness, this time : 

“ Serge Alexandrovitch, I am thy slave ; command 
me,” 

And so it had come to pass that the existence of 
these two beings, so widely separated by birth, 
breeding and every social distinction, had been 
mingled together. The ignorant Bohemian girl was 
never to fully know through what incident of the 
most disreputable nature she owed the visit, in quest 
of a shelter, of that tall, fair-haired young grandee, 
whose remembrance, after her rescue from a ruffianly 
Jew’s attack, she had treasured in her heart. Had 
she been told everything, it is doubtful whether the 
revelation would have impressed her in the least ; 
gambling and cheating being almost synonymous 
terms among that shrewd race which considers all 
sorts of trickery as legitimate means of living. And 
then, besides, and this was a trait quite peculiar to 
Maroussia — utterly foreign to her people — she never 
had had any care or love for money in itself, and 
had let the roubles she so easily gained through her 
untutored talent, slip through her fingers with su- 
preme indifference. The time now began for her to 
develop that singular absence of all greed ; for no 
sooner had this so strangely matched couple, now 
united by other bonds than that of gratitude, man- 
aged, with the help of a goodly sum handed over 
to the proper official, to shake the dust off their feet 
on the other side of the Russian frontier, than a life 
of hard and constant work made to all purposes, of 
Maroussia la Juwa, the true slave — and the profita- 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE u GAIETY ” 47 

ble associate — of her self-appointed companion. 
Serge Alexandrovitch, Duke d’lmeguy. 

A few weeks of cool meditating over his situation, 
had clearly demonstrated to the young man, the 
absurdity of his relinquishing the name and title 
bestowed upon him by his ancestors. True, they 
could not give him access any longer into the 
favored circles — so intimately connected with one 
another — that constitute the upper European aristo- 
cracy. Therein he was tabooed for good and for 
ever. But among tradesmen, in every large city, 
among chance acquaintances picked up in watering 
places or pleasure resorts, a “ Duke’s a Duke, for a’ 
that,” and can draw pretty freely and advanta- 
geously upon the credulity and petty vanity of his 
fellow-beings. Thus did Serge organize his exist- 
ence with the same cleverness, tinged with swind- 
ling instincts carefully kept within the pale of the 
written law, that had characterized his last year of 
Petersburg life. He even accomplished the rather 
arduous feat of appearing as the wealthy protector 
of La Juwa, whilst he depended upon her daily 
earnings for every farthing of his expenditures. And 
not only did the dancer settle hotel bills and tailor’s 
bills, and supply the bank notes for the card case, 
but she had to see, besides, all the money she could 
gather above running expenses, absorbed by that 
incurable vice which was, after all, Serge d’lmeguy’s 
sole ruling passion, gambling. 

Still, in her heart, Maroussia, who was now ador- 
ing her companion with the same wild intensity she 
had manifested in the expression of her gratitude, 


43 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


felt almost kindly toward that overmastering vice, 
since it drove away from her lover’s head any 
thought of possible rivals. If she realized at times 
that, month after month, year after year, her earn- 
ings were thrown into the unquenchable abyss of 
baccara, roulette or faro ; if she even manifested 
now and then, in irritated words, her vexation at 
such reckless annihilation of their means ; if she 
threatened and stormed and fumed, as if about to 
take a final resolution, she did after all pardon Serge 
over and over again the violation of his sacred 
promises to stop his gambling, as long as she be- 
lieved she read in his eyes that same look of pas- 
sionate love she was fain to think had brought 
that man to her. 

And thus, in a little less than three years’ time, 
the two had drifted from Berlin, Vienna, Buda-Pest, 
to Rome, Nice, Paris, London, and as far as the 
metropolis of the New World; the fame of Marous- 
sia, and the shekels it brought her, increasing with 
every season ; whilst, in all these great centers of 
activity and vice, the Duke found some so-called 
clubs wherein to get rid, in double quick time, of all 
the surplus of the Tzigane’s gains. 

How little the outcast nobleman was cured, not 
only of his gambling passion but of his dangerously 
crooked propensities, the scene at MacGlory’s has 
furnished the palpable proof. It is strange to say, 
however, that this evening at the Central Club was 
to be for him, as well as for his mistress and banker, 
the starting point of a new and totally unforeseen 
existence. 


BEHIND THE SCENES OF THE “ GAIETY ” 49 

The two lovers retired that night, after a peculi- 
arly embittered quarrel, in which the woman had 
not spared reproaches to her spendthrift companion. 
A word she said, in perfect ignorance of its true im- 
port, struck home with such terrific force, that it so 
to speak “ evened up accounts,” in the Duke’s mind, 
only too prone to thus settle with all his creditors. 

“You are a fool,” she exclaimed, “ these people 
rob you, right and left. If you only cheated as 
they do ! ” 

The light was out in their room, or she could 
have seen the young man’s face blanch under what 
he thought a premeditated allusion to the great dis- 
aster of his life. He answered nothing though ; but 
in the silence of that night, he registered a fearful 
oath to leave that woman, at any cost and risk, and 
to do so at once. 


Cortlandt — 4 


Ill 

THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 

It was an undeniable fact, that on the afternoon 
preceding his visit to MacGlory’s gambling house, 
Cortlandt Laster had met with one of the most 
cruel experiences of his life. Not without cause, 
indeed, had he winced under Lancelot Van Rassel’s 
casual remark “ that it had not been his lucky day.” 

Although he had left his fiftieth year far behind, 
the present owner of one-half the Laster millions 
had not yet forsworn any of the high-priced, high- 
spiced recreations which gave him, in his salad days, 
a somewhat unenviable reputation. Although tem- 
perate and even abstemious in all such vices as were 
not to his liking, drink first and foremost, Cortlandt 
Laster had never ceased to possess “ that eye for 
beauty” which our grandmothers seem to have 
appreciated as a delicate compliment, but which 
our more staid or cant-loving habits qualify nowa- 
days as decidedly irregular. Kept, however, within 
bounds, and away from Mrs. Grundy’s scathing 
remarks, that leaning towards the fair sex had not 

( 5 °) 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 5 1 

occasioned so far any very serious mishap to the 
fortune spoiled middle-aged rake. 

Neither had he, for that matter, courted danger 
by indulging in such amorous pranks as fall within 
the scope of criminal law. In his wanderings in 
quest of whom to devour, the lion, his mane touched 
with gray, had avoided those dangerous flirtations 
with undeveloped maidens which are apt to land 
their author, millionaire or not, within the chilly 
cells of Sing Sing or Auburn prisons. Nor had 
his mantle been given up to the grasp of some auda- 
cious Mrs. Potiphar, whose young or middle-aged 
charms might have hunted up the road to his 
pocket-book through his heart, to finish up in a 
divorce court. The man, in spite of his depraved 
appetites, had preserved a pretty clear insight into 
human, and especially feminine nature. And then, 
he understood quite clearly how, after thirty, a man 
has many urgent reasons to sacrifice some of his 
caprices for the sake of public opinion. High liver 
as he was, he pretended to the title of gentleman of 
standing and respectability, and never had he 
allowed his passions to run away with his settled 
rules of prudent management. 

Never — that is, never but once, and as he clearly 
felt, on that very day, once too often. 

For the cold-blooded, thoroughly blase and selfish 
viveur had met his fate, to use the well-worn ex- 
pression, just ten months since. 

It was at a garden party, given, in one of the fair 
Parisian suburbs, by an American lady, a great ad- 
mirer of artists and their ways, and settled in the 


52 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

great city as one of its best known entertainers. 
He had wandered there alone, late in the afternoon, 
on one of those days of utter wearisomeness, when 
a man of his calibre finds life hardly worth living. 
For the first time, perhaps, he had felt the weight of 
years, in that loss of interest and that deadening of 
sensation which are but the necessary awakening 
out of thirty years of constant and unlimited self- 
indulgence. The very sight of the facile recreations 
offered him in the Capital of all mercenary volupties, 
only sickened him. He knew by heart the price of 
every smile, and the market-value of every kiss. 
High play was but a meagre substitute for all other 
vanished excitements, and that even he hardly 
counted worth tackling, away from the gilded halls 
and almost unlimited possibilities of Monte Carlo. 
Family ties he had never cared for particularly, and 
for years past had only borne with impatient cour- 
tesy. Of art, of literature, of the refined pleasures 
they offer to the mind, his nature had but faintly 
felt the want, although he affected, as a gentleman 
of leisure worthy of the name, a certain distant in- 
terest in the great events in the world of thought. 
No. Everything now was stale and almost repul- 
sive to him. A heavy lassitude filled his brain. As 
for his heart, he did not impose upon himself so 
much as to believe it had ever beaten honestly and 
truly for any living thing or being. 

When his dog-cart put him down at Mrs. Howard 
de Grey's gate, he could not fail, however, to ac- 
knowledge the lovely perfection of the scenery, 
for the graceful contrivances of the hostess smacked 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 


53 


more of the stage than of the work of nature. Be- 
tween the wrought-iron railing and the white man- 
sard-roofed, diminutive castle, overlooking the 
vine-clad banks of the Marne river, a wide awning 
of Japanese flowered cotton-stuff threw its shade 
over the many summer-clad groups, seated pictu- 
resquely around bamboo tea-tables. On the right and 
left, one glanced over a cleverly imitated Japanese 
cherry-tree orchard, its branches laden with rose- 
tinted flowers and the quaint foliage of Eastern 
shrubs mingling in the distance. Girls in the heavy 
draperies and the high head-dresses of the Mikado’s 
subjects, fluttered about on their tiny feet, offering 
rare fruits and preserves upon exquisitely carved 
platters and trays. Singularly sweet and plaintive 
instruments were heard, as in a dream, warbling the 
peculiar music of the far East, attuned to our uncul- 
tivated ears by some great composer of the day. 
And the guests, chosen among those for whom such 
thing^ have a meaning, and who return in openly 
expressed delight every new sensation thus so ex- 
quisitely offered them, seemed so many minor 
characters assisting the star performers in the cre- 
ation of dainty illusions. 

Even then, as Laster had just bowed to the 
hostess, muttering a few highly complimentary re- 
marks, a drapery hiding a raised platform, at the 
further end to the right, was thrown apart, and a 
small stage, enclosed so as to create artificial dark- 
ness, but lighted up by some soft, mysterious gla- 
mour, displayed suddenly before the charmed 
spectators, its unique setting of pure Oriental 


54 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


beauty, and its two performers, both women, al- 
though one had donned man's attire. And in the 
lovely idiom of France, in the mellifluous rhythm of 
Banville’s verse, there began the story of the love, 
grief, and death of the Rose of Satzuma , a quaint 
Japanese legend enshrined within the poet’s presti- 
gious version. 

Seated beside his hostess, Cortlandt Laster list- 
ened silently to this simple tale of passion, the utter 
melancholy of which seemed to fit in so strangely 
with his present state of mind. Not that he had 
ever felt much inclination toward such imaginative 
flights; but in the dark, or simply the dull, hours of 
our lives, our souls soften and relent, as it were, 
athirst for some unknown consolation. And the 
Rose of Satzuma herself, in the penetrating tones of 
her love-sick voice, carried with her such an infinite 
power of poetic sentiment, that in spite of her slight 
foreign modulation, every word of the poet went to 
its address — the hearts of her hearers — with the 
swiftness of a blessing. 

She was a tall, slender girl, blonde of hair, but 
with dark eyes and brows, and the warm complexion 
of our Southern clime. Her mouth was too large 
for the regulation Japanese features, but the teeth 
shone the more brightly between the red, red lips. 
A flush of excitement replaced the absent rouge ; 
and the clearness of her intonations, the ease and 
grace of every gesture, denoted the born actress. 
She looked not the girl from Satzuma, but acted 
the part with all the contagious emotion dreamed 
by the poet. 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 55 

Cortlandt Laster glanced over a programme 
thrust into his hands ; he read, 

Miss Zelia Van Cleet, The Rose. 


As she stopped speaking, leaving her lover to be- 
gin his lay of entreaty, Laster leaned over and 
whispered to his hostess : 

“Is that old Dr. Van Cleet’s daughter?” 

“ It is,” answered Mrs. Howard de Grey, smiling. 
“ Isn’t she lovely ? ” 

“ A true artist,” replied Laster. 

“ So Sarah Bernhardt says.” 

“Preparing for the stage, I suppose?” but here, 
the Rose again began to speak, and Laster’s atten- 
tion was wrapped up at once in the fair amateur’s 
entrancing speech. After awhile, he said : 

“ I knew her father, years ago, in Memphis.” 

“ Before the war ? ” 

“ I think it was a year or two before the war. 
Have they been utterly ruined ? ” 

“ They had but very little left indeed. But the 
Doctor had a good Brooklyn practice, until — ” here 
she stopped, noticing her guest’s open inattention. 
Zelia Van Cleet was continuing her conquest, upon 
and out of, the stage. A smile fluttered over the 
lips of Mrs. de Grey, a veteran of life’s struggles 
and incidents. 

“ Until? ” asked Laster, attentive again. 

“Until his second stroke of paralysis forced him 
to give up all active occupation. They have been 
in Europe these eight years; in Touraine first ; then 
here, where the girl turned her attention to acting, 
and does very well, as you see.” 


56 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

V' 

“ Very well, indeed. But has she made any plans, 
taken any settled decision about going on the stage 
as a professional ? ” 

“ Well, that is more than I could tell you, my 
dear Mr. Laster,” replied Mrs. de Grey, laughing 
outright this time. “ You had better ask her, some 
day ; or her mother rather ; for she is the one to 
decide everything in that household.” 

“ Is she ? I should like, of all things to hear her 
talk of her daughter’s future. Perhaps I might be 
of some use to the debutante , over there.’ 

“ Of course you might, of the very greatest use. 
Mrs. Van Cleet will be simply in ecstasy to hear of 
your proffered kindness.” 

But the play was coming to its end, and just then 
the graceful talent of Zelia Van Cleet, overshadow- 
ing the gentle efforts of her partner, displayed itself 
with singular force and fervor. In the closing lines 
of the short story, as the cry of “ Death rather than 
separation,” escaped the trembling lips, as her eyes, 
tear-suffused and wild-looking, spokfc of unutterable 
despair, the young actress gave a full insight into 
the marvellous versatility and power of her preco- 
cious talent, a surprising revelation to all present, 
to none more so than to the really awakened ladies’ 
admirer and born protector, Cortlandt Laster. The 
curtain had shut from view the Japanese interior, 
and the loud clapping of hands had been renewed 
twice at each reappearance of the interpreters, be- 
fore Laster had fully recovered frbm the strange 
and utterly new sensation which the last half hour 
had brought to him so unexpectedly. A minute 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 


5 7 


later, his hostess was introducing him to Mrs. Van 
Cleet, a thin faced, thin lipped, sharp looking lady, 
in the late forties, dressed in a rather faded gown, 
but very voluble and gushing in her acknowledg- 
ment of the introduction. 

“Mr, Cortlandt Laster? Indeed!” she cried out 
in a dry, piercing voice, which had nothing of her 
daughter’s modulated contralto, “but I have known 
him these twenty-five years, or more! ” 

“ Right you are, Madam,” said Laster, bowing 
low. “It was in i860, I think, that you did me the 
honor to invite me to dinner, in the palmy days of 
old Tennessee.” 

“Alas! time has not been kind to us;” and the 
elderly lady sighed, almost sincerely. 

“ But it has given you many joys in place of those 
it has taken away. Your daughter is a triumphant 
success.” 

“ I th&nk you with all my heart for this kind 
compliment, my dear sir, and so shall Zelia, very 
soon. I am mother enough to think she deserves 
it all.” 

“And more, much more, dear Madam. She is 
entitled to recognition on the part of the great 
American public, if she feels so inclined.” 

“ She does, my dear Mr. Laster; fate has ordered 
that all the hopes of a good Tennessee family be 
centered upon that fragile young girl. Her father, 
you know — ? ” 

“Yes, I was sorry to hear that the doctor is not 
in the best of health.” 

“ He is utterly broken down, as far as any active 


58 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

occupation is concerned, although he is still very 
fond of a chat with his old friends.” 

Laster took the hint, saying : 

“ I hope I may be counted among them, my dear 
Madam, and that the doctor will feel pleased — ” 

“ He will be delighted to see you, My dear Mr. 
Laster. We are at home almost every afternoon 
after five, and we live at No. 85 Rue de Balzac. 
Oh ! in very modest quarters, I assure you.” 

“ It will be an honor for me to call at No. 85 
Rue de Balzac, at a very early date,” answered 
Cortlandt Laster, taking his leave with the deepest 
of bows. He had now given up all hopes of being 
introduced to the young actress, on that afternoon, 
and felt his old lassitude creeping over him again. 
Walking over to the gate, he had his dog-cart 
brought up, and drove to town, wrapped up in his 
thoughts. 

The next day, and almost every other day after 
that, Cortlandt Laster was to be found at tea-time 
in the small, plainly furnished sitting room of the 
Van Cleets, renewing with compound interest his 
short acquaintance, Anno i860. It is true that the 
family included now a member who in i860 was 
still in the limbo of futurity ; and a very attractive 
one she was, and not to Cortlandt Laster only. 

The Grand Prix of the year had been run, won 
and lost; the last Fete Champetre of Princess de 
Sagan had collected in the magnificent park of her 
Mello estate, the cream of the cream of the Fau- 
bourg and of the foreign colony ; the sea-side and 
mountain resorts, the German and Belgian Spas 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 


59 


were receiving daily a larger contingent of well-born 
and wealthy customers ; in a word, the Parisian sea- 
son was over for good ; and still Laster spoke not 
of departure, and had twice countermanded his deck 
cabin upon one and then another of the fast Cu- 
narders. Neither did his young friend and fellow 
clubman, Lancelot Van Rassel, whose mother and 
sisters were just then doing Switzerland and the 
German picture galleries, deserted by their natural 
guide and protector. At the same shrine, both men 
were now worshipping, under a wretchedly-acted 
pretense of solely artistic enthusiasm. And poor 
Mrs. Van Cleet, the mother of the coveted idol, 
was praying heaven — if such prayers are ever 
uttered — to lead her aright in the coming day of the 
great and final resolve. 

As for Zelia Van Cleet — it would have taxed the 
wits of a pretty shrewd observer, not to speak of the 
muddled brains of her two absorbingly enamored 
admirers, to find out what her answer would be, 
when the heure du berger would strike upon the 
plain little clock of her maidenly chamber. 

One afternoon, early in July, both Laster and Van 
Rassel had called upon the ladies of No. 85 Rue de 
Balzac with a view of trying conclusions before the 
close of the day. Of course, although friendly 
enough to all outward appearances, the two men 
had clearly read through each other’s intentions in 
relation to the budding actress. As Van Rassel 
would often mutter wrathfully to himself, in the 
solitude of his own room, it was a question of 
heavy battalions versus a single handed knight-errant, 


6o‘. CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

of millions of money against connubial ties and 
love in a cottage, and it was not at all clear to the 
younger man’s mind, sharpened as it was by ten 
years of dissolute society-life, that his hand and 
heart had really any chance against the unlimited 
perspective to be thrown open by the married 
Croesus’s magic wand. Still, neither daughter nor 
mother had manifested in any manner their prefer- 
ence for either of the leading candidates to Zelia’s 
suffrages, although most gracefully gushing in their 
welcome to both. Under Mrs. Van Cleet’s vigilant 
eyes, the girl could not be said to have had a single 
chance to mark in what direction her sympathies 
lay, whilst on the other side Lancelot was bound to 
admit that the old lady had been “ kindness 
itself” toward him, and not shown any open par- 
tiality in Laster’s favor. 

As they walked up the stairs together, that day, 
the older man said to Van Rassel : 

“ Suppose we ask the ladies and the Doctor to 
dine with us to-night, at the Pavilion d’Ermenon- 
ville ? It’s about the best thing we could do on 
such a sultry day. Don’t you think so? ” 

“ The suggestion pleases me immensely,” answered 
Lancelot, cheerily calculating with lightning speed 
his chances for a duetto d' amore. “ I only hope our 
friends will approve of it.” 

“ Then it is a settled matter, provided — ” 

“ Provided they accept ; of course it is.” 

And the apartment door having been thrown 
open in answer to the bell, the two rivals entered 
the commonplace furnished parlor which had 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 


6l 


sheltered, of late, so much of their plans and 
hopes. The Van Cleets were at home, and 
alone, and declared themselves, right away, de- 
lighted to join in the out-of-door dinner. Only 
how about the drive ? There would needs be two 
carriages. 

“ It’s early yet,” remarked Laster, looking at his 
watch ; “ hardly five o’clock. Now, suppose you 
four use my barouche, which I’ll have sent to your 
door by seven o’clock ? I have an appointment at 
the Jockey Club which I am bound to attend, as 
the friend I am to meet leaves to-night. I’ll join 
you in my victoria, at half past seven sharp, at the 
Pavilion.” 

“ That ’ll give us two carriages for the return 
trip, in the moonlight,” cried out Zelia, clapping 
her hands with child-like glee. “ Oh ! I dote upon 
these summer night drives through the Bois ! ” 

“ So then everything is charmingly settled,” said 
Mrs. Van Cleet approvingly. “ It’s a pity though 
that you can’t drive there with us, Mr. Laster,” 

“ Well, it’s impossible to have everything our own 
way,” sighed Laster, chuckling inwardly at the suc- 
cess of his little arrangement. Then he bowed him- 
self out, after renewed promises, on all sides, to be 
punctual, so as to meet at the picturesque restaurant 
at the fixed time. 

After an hour or so of charming but somewhat 
desultory chat, Lancelot Van Rassel, who had no 
idea of cutting short his daily call, was left to the 
tender mercies of the rather drowsy Doctor, whilst 
the ladies were donning their outdoor attire. This 


62 


CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 


gave the young man full time to plot his evening 
combination ; and he vowed that on this very night 
he should have his fate settled, one way or the 
other, by the golden voice of Zelia. No doubt that 
through clever handling, he would manage to secure 
a seat in the same carriage with the young girl, and 
that the poetical emotions from the star-lit wood 
might tenderly influence his inamorata in the way 
he so passionately yearned for. And, as if the proverb 
that “ Everybody loves a lover ” was to prove truth- 
ful on that occasion, the large barouche of Cortlandt 
Laster, contained, as it started from the brightly 
illuminated Pavilion, shortly after eleven o’clock, 
old Doctor Van Cleet, soon fast asleep in his corner, 
and Zelia and Lancelot, seated opposite each other, 
and to all purposes the sole occupants of the luxu- 
riously appointed carriage. 

It was not long before Lancelot leaned over 
toward his fair companion, the face of whom could 
be but fitfully perceived between the intermittences 
of shadow and light. He felt for her hand, which 
was resistlessly yielded to him, and then he whis- 
pered with passionate eagerness : 

“Zelia — I may call you so, dearest?” 

A slight pressure of the tiny hand was sufficient 
response. 

“ Then, darling, the hour has at last come when I 
can ask you that question you must have so often 
seen almost escaping my lips. I love you, Zelia, I 
love you as I never thought I could love ; my every 
thought is yours forever. Can you, will you, be 
mine?” Close, quite close to the fair girl’s ear the 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 


6 3 


burning words were uttered, whilst the distant echo 
of the noisy cascade was the only sound that dis- 
turbed the starry night. Zelia, as if rocked to deli- 
cious dreams by the music of her lover’s voice, 
answered him not at once. Then her face came 
closer and closer; like a fluttering butterfly her 
warm lips touched his, whilst in a whisper almost 
inaudible she said : 

“Yes, Lancelot, I am yours, I am yours. ” 

And in that chaste, exquisite kiss their troth was 
pledged. 

The carriage had rolled on through the half de- 
serted avenues, and the lovers had yet but skimmed 
the cream of their first delight, when suddenly on 
turning a corner, the barouche fell in with the crowd 
of vehicles of all kinds which invade, on fine sum- 
mer nights, the wide avenues of the Bois. The 
rumble of wheels, the scores of lighted lanterns, the 
many eyes turned curiously from one to the other 
carriage, cut short the first love transports of Zelia 
and Lancelot. It seemed to them as if barbarous 
Fate had snatched them away from their airy para- 
dise to throw them back into the bustle and heat of 
life’s struggle. A wave of seriousness passed over 
Zelia’s radiant brow. And the society girl, trained 
for all wordly purposes, suddenly reappeared in this 
question, addressed to Van Rassel, by his truly 
awakened fiancee : 

“And now, Lancelot, have you any idea of what 
Mamma will say to this?” 

The ruffled lover answered, rather curtly : 

“ None whatever.” 


64 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


“ Then, let me tell you ; she is going to ask many, 
many questions/’ 

“ She is welcome to all the answers I can give to 
them.” 

“You know how ambitious she is — ” 

“ Yes, yes, I know.” This with some impatience. 

“Don’t get cross, darling; isn’t it rather soon to 
show any temper?” And how sweetly she smiled 
him back to trust and happiness! “What I wanted 
to say,” she continued, “ was that mother has very, 
very grand notions concerning me ; she thinks, the 
dear soul, that I am worth a king’s ransom.” 

“You are worth a good man’s life, darling,” he 
whispered, “ isn’t that better and more? ” 

“Of course it is,” she answered, just a little snap- 
pishly, “but you understand what I mean; Mamma 
thinks of titles, of money, lots of money — You know 
how wretchedly poor we are ? ” 

“ Dear one, I also know that I can give you a 
gentlewoman’s home, and suitably provide for your 
parents ; but of course I am not what we call in the 
States a wealthy man, a man like — ” 

“ Mr. Laster,” she suggested, rather too quickly 
to his taste, “ But how little I care ! still, Mamma 
is very decided, just a little despotic, in her way, 
and it’ll be your work to convert her away from her 
grand ideas.” 

“ It will be my work, indeed, darling, and yours 
too, will it not ? ” 

“Oh! mine! If you could only understand how 
Mamma has always treated me ! Hardly better 
than she would a baby ; even to my gowns and 


THE ROSE OF SATZUMA 


65 


things, she chooses and orders and alters according 
to her own sweet will. She has molded me that 
way, you know ; I can’t help myself.” 

“ But, my own Zelia, now will be the time to assert 
yourself ; it is not a matter of gowns and things, 
any more ; your life, mine, are at stake. Should 
there be really any obstacle, you must make a fight 
for it ; you know you must, little one, — ” and with 
a husky sound in his full, virile voice, he carried the 
tiny hand to his lips. 

She looked at him caressingly, whispering: 

“ I’ll do my best, dear Lancelot.” 

The barouche was now nearing the Triumphal 
Arch and the gorgeous avenues radiating from the 
famous monument. A victoria drawn by a pair of 
superb black Russians, with sweeping manes and 
tails, passed them, and now led the way to the Rue 
de Balzac. In it, sat Mrs. Van Cleet and Laster, in 
serious conversation. Just then the Doctor moved 
about on his seat, as if on the point of waking up. 
The lowers’ duett was at an end. A few minutes 
later, the five people were exchanging congratula- 
tions on the sidewalk in front of the Van Cleets’ 
dwelling. What a delightful evening ! what a pity 
it was over so soon ! and so on, and so on. With 
many “ good nights ” and “ pleasant dreams,” the 
party separated. 

Lighting their cigars, the two New Yorkers reen- 
tered Laster’ s victoria. The coachman was ordered 
to stop at Meurice’s, where Van Rassel was staying, 
and the two men kept silent, both evidently too 
preoccupied to enjoy even a trivial chat. After a 

Cortlandt — 5 


66 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

while, though, as the carriage was entering the rue 
de Rivoli, Laster said : 

“ I think I’ll have to say good night and goodby 
at the same time, my dear fellow ; for I am off by 
the Etruria on Saturday. I found some urgent let- 
ters at the Club, calling me home.” 

Lancelot’s heart gave a jump. Was Fate declar- 
ing in his favor a second time that night? Laster 
gone for good, how much easier it would be to man- 
age, and triumph over, old mother Van Cleet. Con- 
trolling himself, however, he answered demurely : 

“ I am very sorry to hear that our pleasant com- 
panionship is so soon to come to an end, for the 
time being. I think myself of going over to Inter- 
laken, next week, to join my mother and sisters.” 

“ In that case, don’t fail to present to them my 
very best regards, my dear boy. Ah ! here we are.” 

Meurice’s portal stood wide open beneath the 
arcade. 

Lightly, Lancelot jumped out, cordially shook 
hands with Laster, and saw him drive away. Then, 
with a happy smile over his still youthful face, 
he muttered : 

“The darling is mine — now for the mother ! ” 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


When Lancelot Van Rassel woke up, bright and 
early, the day following, he felt both refreshed by 
the sound sleep that is known to visit the nights of 
conquerors, and delighted at heart with the pro- 
gramme set before him for the day. And as he 
jumped out of bed and threw a glance through the 
window, he noticed that the lovely summer-day was 
singing, in unison with him, a hymn to the kindness 
of Nature and Fate. 

The street was not yet crowded by the myriads 
of stylish turn-outs, but the careful sweepers had 
made it, during the small hours of the night, a thing 
of beautiful cleanliness. In the Tuileries Garden, 
the richly foliaged horse-chestnuts spread under the 
eye a feast of delicate verdure, interspersed with 
the roseate hue of their conically shaped flowers. 
Through the open window, there came a soft, per- 
fume-laden breeze that spoke of ideally kept parks 
in a country of loveliness and plenty. The twitter 

(67) 


68 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

of birds almost covered the sound of the few pass- 
ing vehicles, and a sense of luxurious repose per- 
meated the whole atmosphere. Indeed it was 
a fine prelude for the glorious scene of recip- 
rocated love in which Lancelot was to act, in a 
few hours, the part of the accepted suitor. And 
so he thought, as he rang the bell for his tub 
and his togs, whistling softly the latest of Paulus’s 
refrains. 

Lancelot had had so far but little to complain of 
in the life he had been born to. The son of rich and 
truly refined parents, his first years of manhood had 
been devoted to the study of all those subjects that 
contribute to make a scholarly and interesting man 
out of a well-born gentleman. Happily unfettered 
with any obligation of making money for a living, he 
had felt no desire to increase the fair competence 
that came to him at his father's death, but took his 
place among the moderately rich young men who 
are able to enjoy life, without any silly desire of 
'‘showing off." Something of an artist, something 
of a litterateur , he was much more of a dillettante in 
every sense of the imported word. No prig either, 
no pretentious member of Churches or Ethical Cul- 
ture Clubs, he had not failed to acquaint himself 
with the less objectionable features of the “life 
about town," in New York and abroad. In fact, he 
had lived ten years of a very complete existence, 
although never positively attracted or retained by 
any vice, or even passion. That is, he had remained 
an indifferent and discriminating bon vivant , until 
his meeting with Zelia Van Cleet had caused him to 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 69 

believe that his future happiness lay in the track of 
a married life. 

So it had come to pass, that his love for the 
young girl had grown, week after week, in his 
rather close association with the Van Cleets, 
fanned to a great extent by what his worldly 
experience taught him to be the very peculiar 
attentions of Cortlandt Laster to the object of 
his love. 

But these suspicions were now gladly and forever 
set at rest, since from her own lips, he had obtained 
the delicious certitude that his passion was returned, 
and that the goal of his ardent wishes was now 
plainly in sight. Whatever might have been old 
Laster’s (Oh! the irreverence of youth!) preten- 
tions to monopolize Zelia’s interest, the elderly can- 
didate to her favor was now disposed of, through 
his own free will, and, in a few hours, the parents 
Van Cleet would doubtless authorize the early 
change of their daughter’s surname, to that of Van 
Rassel, one of the oldest in the Knickerbocker Libro 
d'Oro. 

Fortified by this confident conviction and by one 
of the dainty breakfasts supplied by Meurice’s old- 
fashioned hostelry, Lancelot launched out, toward 
ten o’clock, for a stroll and a cheerful confab with 
his own blissful self. Up the rue de Castiglione, 
the Place Vendome, dazzlingly white under the rays 
of the June sun, the rue de la Paix, already busy 
with its crowd of morning shoppers, along the Boule- 
vard des Capucines, he wended his way, until the 


70 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


lovely Flower Fair, under the Grecian-looking Made- 
leine church, attracted his attention. This profusion 
of lovely treasures from the suburban gardens was 
sure to call to his mind that loveliest flower of all, 
that was to lay so close to his heart, his whole life 
long, Zelia Van Cleet. 

“ By Jove,” he muttered with cheerful emphasis, 
“ I am going to send her the prettiest and freshest 
bunch of flowers the whole place contains.” And a 
few minutes later, a pasteboard box filled to the top 
with long-stem roses and camelias, and with a 
“ Lancelot Van Rassel ” card thrown in the middle, 
negligently, was being carried over to the rue de Bal- 
zac, by a stout Auvergnat messenger, in his garb 
of green corduroy. 

That’ll do until two o’clock,” thought Lance- 
lot, “ then I’ll go and claim my reward,” and a smile 
lighted up his pleasant features. 

After a smoke and a protracted walk up to the 
St. Augustin church, the young New Yorker de- 
cided to make a visit to his bankers, calling there 
for his letters and papers. The perusal of these, 
and the meeting of a few stray acquaintances, filled 
his time until about noon, when he walked back to 
Meurice’s for a change of attire and a frugal 
luncheon. 

As he passed the hotel office, a note was handed 
him by the porter. 

“ Brought by a commissionaire , sir, an hour ago.” 

Lancelot recognized the hand at once, and with a 
curious, inexplicable misgiving, he tore open the 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


7 1 


envelope, and read the following message, in the 
thin, needle-like handwriting that was Mrs. Van 
Cleet’s perfect picture. 

No. 85 Rue de Balzac. 

Paris, June — th, 188 — . 

Dear Mr. Van Rassel : Your flowers just received ; and I 
must thank you, at once, for the fragrant morning offering. 
My poor girl would surely send her delighted grazzie, if she 
were well enough to be disturbed. But our charming outing 
of yesterday has been a little too much for her, and I am afraid 
she will have to keep to her room all day, and nurse a bad 
headache. I don’t feel myself especially brilliant, either. 
With many more thanks, believe me, my dear Mr. Van Rassel, 

Yours faithfully, 

Cornelia Van Cleet. 

N. B. — Do come and see us to-morrow or next day. I guess 
we’ll be all right again. 


How was it that the wording of this note, com- 
monplace and natural enough, sounded ominous to 
Lancelot’s ears? He stood there, the sheet of thick 
blue-gray English paper in his hand, and his eyes 
looking vacantly before him. Has love, true, honest 
love, such power that it can comprehend and read 
through those apparently innocent stratagems which 
may jeopardize its smooth course ? Whether it be 
so or not, in the general run of cases, the fact was, 
that, in this particular occurrence, Lancelot Van 
Rassel, as he walked moodily up the stairs of 
Meurice’s, was not so far from divining what a fatal 
blow had just been ruthlessly aimed at his fondest 
hopes. Months were to elapse, however, before he 
would fully understand the momentous meaning of 
this apparently insignificant incident, 


72 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

On the preceding evening, as Mrs. Van Cleet and 
Cortlandt Laster were driving away from the Pavil- 
ion d’Ermenonville, in the wake of the barouche 
containing Lancelot and his coming bliss, the 
millionaire New Yorker had started in medias res , 
in the following style. 

“ My dear Mrs. Van Cleet,” he said, in a perfectly 
steady voice, “ You know how much interested I am 
in your daughter Zelia’s success in life — ” 

“ Indeed, I know you are, my dear Mr. Laster, 
and nothing is a greater subject of satisfaction and 
even — pride, to me.” 

“ Well, then, my dear Madam, you will excuse 
my bluntness, if I state here, right away, that her 
future career is not being managed as fully well as 
it might be. I mean her future as a daughter of 
yours.” 

“ I confess myself surprised. Is not Zelia under 
the care and tuition of the very best teachers from 
the Conservatoire, both in the dramatic and singing 
lines? Has she not already proved how industrious 
— and allow me to add — how successful she can 
be?” 

“ I know, I know. That part, the training part of 
the business, has been attended to in the very best 
manner. And in fact, the training seems now to 
be almost sufficient, that is, if your daughter’s 
future is not to be solely professional. ” 

“ What do you mean, my dear sir ? ” 

“ I mean, if you intend her talent to serve her 
only as a means of obtaining her proper place in 
society?” 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


73 


“ In securing a wealthy husband ? ” 

“ Exactly- In a word, I imagined that your aim 
was to bring the beauty and grace of Miss Zelia to 
the notice of desirable wooers, by the very legiti- 
mate medium of a short, very short theatrical 
career ? ” 

“ Well, I must acknowledge that thqre was some- 
thing of this nature, in my plans.” 

“ Or, even better, you may have thought of using 
her natural and acquired powers only and strictly 
within the limits of society life, in amateur and 
charitable performances ? ” 

“ Of course this would have been a great deal the 
better method, and the more congenial to, and 
reassuring for, a mother’s heart.” 

“ Then, in that line, I mean, in purely social tri- 
umphs, entirely away from the regular stage life, lies 
your open preference, so far as Miss Zelia’s future is 
concerned ? ” 

“ Indeed it does, my dear Mr. Laster ; but I have 
never been able to indulge in such dreams, however 
rose-colored they be. To make of my daughter a 
society success, and a desirable 'catch’ as they say in 
London drawing-rooms, the Doctor and I lack the 
wherewithal. So that, after all, a short season on 
the real stage is the best I can hope for.” 

There was a silence of a few minutes, as if Laster 
was turning his thoughts in another channel. 

“ Of course,” he finally said, “ there is a different 
solution of the question, which you may have con- 
sidered at leisure. Your daughter may meet some 
pleasant gentleman of moderate means, whose good 


74 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

looks, and so forth, may conquer her over to a plain, 
simple home life, without any of the splendors you 
dream for her. If she did decide for that course, I 
suppose you would throw no obstacle in her way ? ” 

In the dark, Mrs. Van Cleet bit her lips angrily, 
but rapidly recovered her composure before an- 
swering : 

“ If my daughter’s heart were truly at stake, my 
dear sir, there is no doubt that I should have to 
accept the inevitable, and allow my laboriously built 
castle in the air to crumble down shattered. But — 
but — ” and a forbidding look passed over her set 
features, “ I do not think there is anything of the 
kind in prospect.” 

Another short silence ensued, as if this conversa- 
tional fencing-match was reaching a sort of crisis. 
Then Mr. Laster resumed : 

“ It struck me, my dear Madam, that if you and 
I could come to some kind of intelligent under- 
standing concerning the future career of your 
daughter — By the way, what has the Doctor to say 
in the premises? ” 

“ The Doctor ! Oh ! the poor, dear man is mostly 
asleep, nowadays ; and when awake, he eats or 
plays whist ; so I have had, most unwillingly, to 
take all matters of business out of his hands. At 
times, he hardly realizes that we have lost our for- 
tune.” 

“ Is that so ? I am very sorry indeed. Especially 
since it puts all the weight and worry of a decision 
upon your shoulders. Now, let me see, what was I 
saying? Oh, yes. Concerning the future of your 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


75 


daughter — Would you allow me to suggest what I 
should do, were I in your place, and you in mine?” 

“ That would be a most curious change, I assure 
you,” answered the old lady, a gleam of strange sat- 
isfaction passing over her face. “ But, please, go 
on.” 

“ Well, if I were you, and a friend, like me, with a 
great deal more money than he has any possible use 
for, a friend, mind you, who has known you and 
your husband for twenty years and more, and who 
takes an interest, a lively interest, in the welfare 
and future of your daughter — ” 

“For which I shall never be grateful enough, 
my dear friend,” interrupted Mrs. Van Cleet, as she 
pressed affectionately her interlocutor's hand. 

“If I, then — I mean you — had such a friend I 
could absolutely, implicitly trust, and if that friend 
said to me : my dear Mrs. Van Cleet, your object in 
life is to place your child where she belongs, in the 
loftiest social sphere of our country, or Europe ; 
she must become, within a year or two, the wife of 
a man with a great title, or at least with a large for- 
tune, or still better with both rank and money. To 
realize this object you must surround her with all 
the elements of success ; she must live in a pretty 
house, with servants and horses, jewels and gowns 
at her disposal, without unseemly display, but all in 
perfect taste ; she must appear occasionally in per- 
formances for sweet charity’s sake, and have her un- 
doubted talents enhance her physical charms. In a 
word, she must be made a success as a girl, to reach 
the usual goal, and become the wife of a great man, 


y6 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

be he Duke or Banker. Now Fate has denied you 
the means to carry out such a plan, by far the best 
your motherly love can conceive/’ 

“ Indeed, indeed the best,” muttered the old lady, 
as if speaking to herself. 

“ But this difficulty can be overriden ; easily and 
smoothly. It only depends on your good common 
sense ; on your acute understanding of the world’s 
necessities. For instance, if I should concoct with 
you a very harmless deception, — we two only in the 
secret — which would make you heiress to, say, ten 
thousand, or even twenty thousand dollars a year — ” 

His neighbor started slightly, but at once resumed 
her silent, attentive attitude. 

“ That innocent fable would place in your hands 
the desired resources, and the future of your 
daughter would come out of the clouds which are 
yet enshrouding it. My dear Mrs. Van Cleet,” 
concluded Laster, with an accent of decision mark- 
ing his every word, “ I have dabbled enough in a 
hypothetical case. I now come to the dead level 
of business. With your help and consent, I propose 
to place a home in New York, fully appointed and 
equipped, at your disposal and in your name, and 
to pay, into whatever bank you choose, two thousand 
dollars a month, to keep up the establishment until 
your daughter marries. On that day, I will hand 
over to you two hundred thousand dollars for your- 
self, so that the financial loss caused you by the 
non-appearance of your daughter upon the pro- 
fessional stage will be fully compensated. By pfe- 
arrangement, all these funds are to be known as the 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


77 


generous legacy of some European relative, inter- 
ested in the fate of a ruined Southern branch of an 
old colonial stock. As to details, etc., we should 
have to talk more at leisure, but I have now simply 
outlined a plan, which I respectfully submit to your 
intelligent — ” he repeated, “ intelligent attention.” 

Surprising to say, these final words of Cortlandt 
Laster, and the extraordinary proposal they dis- 
closed, were met, on the part of Mrs. Van Cleet, 
neither with enthusiasm nor with indignation. In- 
deed, the two compeers were much too sharp to de- 
ceive each other about the real import of their 
conversation, long since presaged by the shrewd and 
scheming old lady. And just for that reason, the 
critical hour having come at last, Mrs. Van Cleet 
was discussing with herself how far it would be con- 
venient and clever to throw off the mask, and to, meet 
Laster half-way. 

It seemed that the few minutes of silence had 
taught her a lesson of prudence, for, as the victoria 
was just passing the Arc de Triomphe, in full view of 
the barouche containing the now blissful lovers, she 
answered, perfectly quietly : 

“ The matter deserves reflection, my dear Mr. 
Laster, and I am sure you expect no answer from 
me to-night. Besides — ” 

He interrupted her rather abruptly : 

“ It is hardly worth while mentioning anything, 
yet, to Miss Zelia.” 

“ I fully agree with you on that point ; and I also 
understand that a prompt decision must be arrived 
at, one way or the other.” 


78 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


“ I was thinking of leaving to-morrow night for 
the States.” 

“Just so. Therefore it is only fair that you 
should be told very soon what is to become of us. 
Can you drop in to-morrow before noon? I’ll man- 
age to have a quiet half-hour for you.” 

“Before noon? All right. I’ll be there.” 

The full light of the gas lamp in front of No. 85 
Rue de Balzac failed to disclose any alteration in 
the face of either of the conspirators, when the vic- 
toria stopped just behind the now empty barouche. 
The good-byes were exchanged, and the three Van 
Cleets entered their modest home. 

Half an hour later, Mrs. Van Cleet, having duti- 
fully attended to the various wants of her invalid 
husband, walked into her daughter’s room, to in- 
dulge in a desultory chat with Zelia, whilst the girl 
combed, before the cheval-glass which was the only 
luxurious piece of furniture of her little chamber, 
the wealth of her silver-blonde hair, one of her most 
striking attractions. 

Miss Van Cleet, at the time this story begins, 
had just past her nineteenth birthday. She was 
hardly twelve when her parents had decided to set- 
tle in Europe, and in one of the smaller French cities 
at that, where life is cheap and the comforts many. 
The young girl, upon whose head the clever 
mother had centered all her hopes of a brighter 
future and of her reappearance upon the social 
stage, had been trained, with the utmost care, in all 
those lines which are supposed to create a perfect girl, 
in the French meaning of the word. That is, she had 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


79 


not been left to the society of other young girls, and 
not even to the free working of her own nature. In 
the lovely little city of Tours, wherein they say that 
the fountain of beautiful and choice language flows 
purer than anywhere else in France, the Van Cleets 
had spent six years of a peaceful, almost somnolent 
existence. Whether Madam Van Cleet was by 
birth a Roman Catholic or not, no one seemed to 
remember, but, in Tours, she certainly counted 
among the most regular attendants at the St. 
Symphorien parish, and her few acquaintances were 
recruited almost exclusively among the priests and 
good sisters of the diocesan see. 

It may be that the dream of the ex-Southern 
beauty, whose youth had not been without its 
storms and follies, and whose fortune had dis- 
appeared much more through her love of display in 
the ante-bellum days than through the suppression 
of slavery — it may be that her dream, at the time, 
had taken the form of some fairy-like alliance be- 
tween her daughter and one of those wealthy noble- 
men, of qndoubted lineage, whose castles crown so 
picturesquely the banks of the upper Loire. She 
knew of course that the clergy takes great interest 
in the marriages of these last scions of the old roy- 
alist families, and she endeavored cleverly enough, 
to work her way up, well seconded by their help. 
But it did not take her very long, after Zelia had 
reached the age of matrimonial possibilities, to dis- 
cover that her nascent charms would not be accepted 
in lieu of recognized station and landed estates. 
With characteristic energy, the clear-sighted matron 


Bo 


CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 


burned therefore, in one day ? whatever fragile edifice 
she had erected in six years’ time, and wended her 
way toward that Mecca of all adventurous spirits, 
Paris, la grand ’ ville. 

When she entered the great struggle for which 
she had prepared herself so long, Mrs. Van Cleet 
found herself pretty well armed for the fray. She 
had in hand a few thousand francs, economized, 
year after year, in her provincial exile. She was 
not encumbered with any too strict moral principles, 
nor with any social impedimenta, in the shape of 
acquaintances or relatives, and even her husband, 
now almost fallen into his second infancy — he was 
fully fifteen years her senior — was physically 
unable to exercise any restraining influence upon 
any of her views or actions. Finally, in her daugh- 
ter herself, she had given birth to, and developed, 
one of the most supple as well as the most attrac- 
tive instruments of success. 

To say that Zelia was possessed of a pliant will 
would be stating the fact very feebly indeed. For, 
under her mother’s astute manipulation, will-power, 
in the most attenuate form, had never been allowed 
to even awaken within her. What with keeping the 
girl in a studied ignorance of the realities of life, 
what with rendering her tributary to the many pet- 
ting and caressing ways she had been surrounded 
with from babyhood to maidenhood, the mother 
had succeeded in preserving unshaken and unques- 
tioned her absolute sway over her daughter’s heart 
and thoughts, not to say, acts. Zelia was truly part 
and parcel of her strong-minded, systematic and 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


8l 


devouringly ambitious mother; that is, she saw 
through no eyes but hers, and seemed to need her 
mother’s brain to give a practical form to any of her 
slightest wishes. So it had been in Touraine, so it 
had continued to be during the year of Conserva- 
toire studies, when Madam Van Cleet had inter- 
posed her steely personality between her daughter 
and the familiarities of her transient college-mates. 
For the last six weeks only, Zelia had shown some 
slight symptoms of a budding tendency toward 
more freedom ; but even this velleity of independ- 
ence had been allowed to manifest itself only in the 
right direction, and within carefully limited propor- 
tions, under the clear-sighted eyes of the ever- 
vigilant guardian. 

We mean, of course, that Mrs. Van Cleet had 
shrewdly divined the progress Zelia was unwittingly 
making in the hearts — or fancies — of her two ad- 
mirers, Van Rassel and Laster, and had led her 
daughter through this great crisis with the masterly 
ability of an old veteran of the flirtation-field. 

That night, as she stepped noiselessly into her 
daughter’s room, she could not help being struck by 
the absorbed expression of the young girl’s face, re- 
flected in the glass in front of which she sat, her 
hands hanging listlessly by her side, instead of ac- 
complishing their customary and pleasant task. 
The quick eye of the scheming mother read the 
situation in a twinkling : Lancelot Van Rassel had 
spoken, that very night, and he had not spoken in 
vain. So that the problem under its double form, 
was confronting her now from both sides at the 

Cortlandt — 6 


82 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

same minute. Now was the time to find out of 
what metal both her daughter and herself were 
made. The struggle had to be gone through at 
once, and without flinching. 

“ Dreaming wide awake, my darling,” she said 
caressingly, as she passed her arm around the fair 
neck of Zelia, who uttered a faint cry of surprise.” 

“Yes — that is, no,” stammered the girl, “I was 
only thinking — ” 

“ Do you know, dearest,” said the mother, “ that 
if I were not so absolutely sure of your never keep- 
ing anything from me, I should be tempted to im- 
agine that you are harboring just now a tiny 
secret.” 

There was a gleam of courage in the eyes of the 
girl, now fully aroused. It seemed as if a door 
was suddenly opened, for her to run out to free 
space and healthy love. She went toward it with 
the blind enthusiasm of unsuspecting youth. 

“ Mother,” she said, “ there is a secret, but it is 
not two hours old, and it is not to be kept from you 
five minutes longer. Lancelot Van Rassel has pro- 
posed to me, and — ” 

“ You have accepted him, darling?” asked Mrs. 
Van Cleet, without a shadow of vexation in her 
face. 

“ I have, mother dear,” and the girl, blushing that 
delightful blush of conscious maidenhood, nestled 
her lovely head upon her mother’s breast. 

“Well, well, that is news indeed,” said Mrs. Van 
Cleet, rather at a loss for expressing, at such short 
notice, a decided opinion. “ Of course, my sweet 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 83 

pet referred the audacious swain to me for a final 
answer? ” 

“ I did, I did,” was the half smothered reply. 

“And is my Zelia very sure that her heart has 
chosen aright?” 

“ She is. Lancelot seems so good, so brave, so 
devoted — ” 

“ But you are still very young, child, to know 
clearly what is best for you — You do not doubt my 
love ? ” 

“ Oh, mother, how can you ask such a question ? ” 

“ Shall I tell you then what is my first impression 
upon this captivating subject ? ” 

“Yes, mother, do tell me; but” with a tender 
squeeze, “ don’t be too hard on poor Lancelot.” 

“ There is no reason why I should be hard on him 
at all, my Zelia. He is a worthy young fellow ; not 
so very young, either, fully ten years your senior. 
I don’t complain of that, for one thing, for very 
young men are neither so attractive nor so reliable 
as older ones. Mr. Van Rassel comes of good 
stock, is handsome looking, and I think, of as steady 
habits as most of his peers. He has some money 
too, not much — ” 

“ Oh ! he says he has plenty for us all to live on, 
together and happy.” 

“No doubt he has enough for a quiet existence 
away from society life and what makes existence 
truly worth living. Still, that is not what worries 
me. Shall I tell you what does, dearest ? ” 

With a little sigh, and an appealing look from 
her tender eyes, the girl answered softly : 


84 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ I listen, mamma,” 

“Well, Lancelot Van Rassel is not an ambitious 
man.” 

“ Is that all, mother ? ” 

“ Is that all ? But my poor darling, how quickly 
you would find out, if your present fancy culminated 
in the usual way, that a man without ambition is 
the very one whose love is valueless ; for the first 
mutual passion once exhausted, or toned down, he 
cares nothing for that which gives life its everlast- 
ing piquancy : the aim toward better things, station, 
fame, fortune. A young American, of moderate 
means, with a fairly cultivated mind, and a detesta- 
tion for either business, professions, or politics, is 
just the husband a wife is sure to get tired of, in no 
time.” 

“ But, mother dear, does not love fill in all those 
deficiencies ? ” 

“ It does, my sweet simpleton, it does for a 
month, or six, or twelve — no, no, my darling ; no 
daughter of mine, if she trusts in my tender judg- 
ment, shall ever marry a non-ambitious man. Still, 
dearest, I may change my views, in this special 
case — ” 

“Could you really, dear mamma?” asked plain- 
tively poor Zelia, whose eyelids were heavy with 
tears of cruel disappointment. 

“ Certainly, my own. But it will not be in one 
day. I do not frown upon your sweet caprice, my 
love ; I just want both of us, you and I, to look at 
it like women of the world, quite decided to save your 
life from a premature wrecking. So don’t be de- 


CONSPIRATORS TWO 


85 


spairing or overjoyed by to-day’s great event, my 
love. Only try to instill a little of my old wisdom 
into your baby-head. But it is very late, dear, and 
we have had enough fatigue and emotions for one 
afternoon. Give me a good-night kiss, and don’t 
drive me yet, entirely, out of your dreams.” 

The girl had a melancholy smile on her lips as she 
threw her arms around her mother’s neck. But the 
soothing influence of the clever matron had already 
assuaged the first grief so closely associated with the 
dawn of her virgin love. 


V 

A GOOD DAY’S WORK 

We already know how Lancelot spent his first 
night of exultation ; we may easily guess what pre- 
occupations did visit the head of that blast quinqua- 
genarian, Cortlandt Laster ; the ingenuous visions of 
the naive Zelia are too sacred for profane unravel- 
ling ; but there is some interest in finding out what 
kept the scheming Mrs. Van Cleet awake, and toss- 
ing uneasily in her bed, until the light of the dawn- 
ing day pierced the Venetian blinds of her own room 
in Rue de Balzac, No. 85. 

From the peculiar attitude of Zelia’s mother dur- 
ing Laster’s communication, we are afraid that the 
reader may have hastily concluded that Mrs. Van 
Cleet was a woman far below the consideration of 
all decent people. In a word, it may have looked 
as if she were prepared to entertain an unnamable 
bargain, with her daughter’s fate as the price to 
pay for the sudden favors of fortune. On the other 
hand, her evident opposition to Lancelot’s wooing, 

seemed a sad confirmation of this infamous surren- 

( 86 ) 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


87 


der. So that, after all, Mrs. Van Cleet is intro- 
duced herein as a sort of fiendish creature, ready to 
gain her ends, and reenter the social sphere she so 
bitterly regrets, by trampling upon that treasure of 
blooming and irrecoverable splendor, a maiden’s 
innocence. 

But that’s just where the reader, perhaps through 
the awkwardness of the raconteur , is painfully and 
absolutely mistaken. And the best answer to give 
to his erroneous surmises, can be worded as follows : 
Mrs. Van Cleet did love her daughter with a real, 
and a natural, and a maternal tenderness, and the 
sacrifice of her maidenhood upon the altar of her 
ambition was a thought she never entertained for 
one instant. 

But — for there is a “ but ” — the astute matron was 
possessed with a devouring ambition to place her 
Zelia upon that social throne she knew her entitled 
to, by her good birth, her exceptional beauty, and the 
many talents grafted upon this brilliant young 
plant during those eight years of foreign tuition. 
She could not ignore the pecuniary necessities of a 
debut , within the select circles of the great Ameri- 
can cities, New York first and foremost. To secure 
an exceptional prize in the lottery of marriage, her 
daughter had to be framed in — so to speak — for one 
or two seasons, in a setting of luxury and ap- 
parent wealth. Even her attainments would fail to 
produce the desired sensation if not presented upon 
a golden salver, and heralded as the belongings of a 
pet child of fortune. Money, money, money — or if 
the wherewithal were not forthcoming, then, either 


88 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


a stage life with its dubious possibilities, or a shabby 
every-day marriage, bringing Zelia down to the level 
of those thousand-and-one dowerless young wives 
whose existences are destined to remain, from the 
first to the last day, out of the pale of the world’s 
favored few. 

It was just at the time when this two-sided prob- 
lem was presenting itself to Madam Van Cleet, in 
all its imperious reality, but still theoretical and not 
calling for an immediate decision on her part, that 
events had thrown in her way the conflicting aspira- 
tions of Cortlandt Laster, the millionaire rout, and 
of Lancelot Van Rassel, the gentleman of leisure 
upon marriage bent. 

And that very night, during those long hours of 
feverish vigil, Mrs. Van Cleet had to settle in her 
mind into what channel to steer that fragile craft of 
hers, which was to carry through the troubled 
waters what she might have truly called “ Zelia and 
her fortune.” 

Lancelot’s offer was too simple and too clear to 
need much meditating about ; it represented the 
honorable but ruthless annihilation of every single 
one of her hopes, and it reduced Zelia, the coming 
fashionable beauty and grande dame , to the ranks of 
the commonplace brides of the season. Thus, eight 
years of infinite care and patient toil were to be as 
if they had never been, and the joys of success to 
sink into nothingness, before having even touched 
her lips. This was a bitter draught indeed for the 
ambitious matron to accept and swallow ; so bitter, 
in truth, that she was fain to turn her head away, 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 89 

and to look unflinchingly that other proposal in the 
face. 

Nor did the Laster suggestion lack in precision 
and limpidity in the eyes of such a worldly dame as 
Mrs. Van Cleet, the whilom great coquette. She 
had met, many a time, with connections of the kind, 
wrapped up from view with such minute regard for 
public opinion as to be no obstacles to social suc- 
cess; only, they consisted generally of the regula- 
tion trio, wife, husband, and £ other , — a very apt 
quotation from Our Mutual Friend . The “ mother, 
daughter and — third” combination was not, as far 
as she could remember, of so common occurrence. 
Still, Paris, which engulfs every turpitude, had 
known and boasted of such alliances ; doubtless 
London and New York had followed suit, and must 
count a few society girls among the discreet entrete- 
nues of this dissolute age. It was all a question of 
tact after all ; of surroundings also ; of clever, pa- 
tient engineering ; of gradual conquest of society’s 
forts, accomplished by means of heavy battalions of 
cash, “ living cash,” Balzac calls it, very much alive 
indeed since it absorbs so many millions of exist- 
ences to satisfy the passions of a thousand or two 
of the favorites of Fate. 

And so Mrs. Van Cleet had forced herself to look 
upon the Laster proposal as upon a bargain, which 
might be entertained, and kept to, until the full 
realization of her pet dream : the safe launching of 
Zelia upon a life of great wealth and undoubted 
station. Only, as she gradually reached that mo- 
mentous conclusion, she smiled inwardly the smile 


go CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

of the strong, shrewd woman of forty and odd* She 
was about to undertake the great campaign of her 
existence, with but one round of ammunition in her 
hands, perfectly resolved, in her inner self, to con- 
quer and enslave the enemy, without ever allowing 
that single shot of hers to be either fired or 
captured. 

La nuit porte conseil, the French say ; meaning, of 
course, that a good night’s sleep brings with it re- 
pose of the nerves and steadiness of resolve. In 
Mrs. Van Cleet’s case, a night’s unrest interfered not 
in the least with her firm decision to act in the cool, 
calculating manner which had formed, for so many 
years, the main-spring of her every move. She was 
up betimes and ready for the fray long before the 
first gun was let off, we mean the first bouquet sent 
to the Rue de Balzac by our love-sick swain, Lance- 
lot. Her impromptu answer to the young man’s 
flowers and card our reader knows already. In 
truth, Zelia was still enjoying her beauty-sleep, 
when the billet-doux of mother Van Cleet was tak- 
ing its flight, under the wing of the licensed Mercury, 
towards Meurice’s Hotel. 

A few moments later, an early breakfast brought 
the Van Cleet trio together in their shabby little 
dining room. Chocolate and rolls, with a few straw- 
berries, formed the menu, and a waitress, rather out 
at elbows, the attendance. One of the ever-obeyed 
suggestions of the mater-familias sent father and 
daughter on a stroll on the near-by Avenue des 
Champs Elysees ; not, however, before this prelimi- 
nary passage-of-arms. 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


9 * 


“ Anything from Mr. Van Rassel, mamma dear?” 
whispered the blushing girl. And, in all frankness, 
Mrs. Van Cleet answered: 

“ Yes, indeed, he sent these flowers, along with his 
card. Aren’t they lovely ? ” 

“ Do — do you expect him soon ? ” queried the 
damsel, sinking her dainty nose,* (small noses always 
denote weakness of willpower, so saith the first and 
only Napoleon) within the bunch of odorous offer- 
ings : 

“ I declare, I don’t know,” is the diplomatic 
answer of the veracious mother. “ If he does come, 
in your absence, darling, you may be sure that I 
shall receive him in all kindness.” 

A kiss, and a “good by, sweet mamma,” and the 
darling is off under escort of the sedate old gentle- 
man. 

They won’t be back before luncheon-time, says 
the mother to herself, putting the tiny parlor to 
rights, with her own aristocratic hands. Then she 
opens slightly the threadbare reps curtains, and es- 
pies the Rue de Balzac, for the coming caller. It is 
not much after half-past eleven, when the French 
maid they have brought from Touraine, walks in and 
says : 

“ Mr. Laster sends his compliments, madam, and 
can he step in just for a minute.” 

“ Certainly, Marie ; show Mr. Laster in here.” 

The handsome looking, elderly beau strolls into 
the room with that stately deportment which can 
only be inherited from a princely or a millionaire 
father. 


92 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


Madam Van Cleet extends her hand cheerfully, as 
she exclaims : 

“The nest is empty, my dear Mr. Laster ; nothing 
but old me left to receive you.” 

“ Dear Mrs. Van Cleet, this is simply libellous — 
and you know what I, for one, think of it.” 

“ Merci bien , Mbnsieur,” answers the merry 
matron with a mock courtesy ; “ we are not in 
France for nothing, it appears.” 

“ In France, or out of it,” replies the gallant gen- 
tleman, “ a true American has always his tribute 
ready for grace and charm.” 

“You are truly a faithful friend, Mr. Laster,” ex- 
claims the ex-Southern beauty, not invulnerable to 
delicate flattery, in spite of the flight of years. But 
that word “ friend ” sounds like business to both 
talkers’ ears ; and there falls a sudden silence that 
bodes grave decisions. 

Finally Mrs. Van Cleet breaks the ice first, with a 
clear, incisive tone of voice. 

“ I have given your valuable suggestions of last 
night my very close attention, my dear Mr. Laster. 
I felt that they were really inspired by your kind, 
unselfish regard for all three of us — ” 

“ Indeed they were,” interrupts Laster, with a 
slight bow. 

“And I may say, just at the outset, and without 
seeing very clearly, as yet, how they can be put into 
practical execution, that I appreciate them, and 
even approve of them absolutely. But — ” 

“ But ?” inquires Laster, without a muscle of his 
face moving. 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


93 


“ But circumstances have come forward, since I 
saw you last, which may direct my daughter’s future 
into an entirely different channel — ” 

“ May I state, right here, that I am not without 
strong suspicions as to what those circumstances 
are ? ” 

Mrs. Van Cleet nods, with a "show of surprise. 

“ May I make bold to ask,” continues Mr. Laster, “if 
Lancelot Van Rassel has proposed to Miss Zelia?” 

“ He has,” is the quiet answer. 

“And been accepted?” 

“ Zelia has not discouraged him, that’s a fact ; but 
she prudently referred him to me.” 

“And you — ” 

“And I see many shoals ahead, apt to wreck the 
young couple’s happiness — My daughter knows my 
views on the subject, and I feel certain that with 
time, and careful, motherly care, she may — ” 

“Be brought over this youthful entanglement?” 
suggests mildly Mr. Laster. 

“Oh! there is no entanglement so far. Just the 
merest fancy, that’s all.” 

“All the better, since you, who have so wisely 
directed your daughter’s every move, are evidently 
bound to see in such a marriage, the ruin of your 
most legitimate and dearest prospects.” 

“ I cannot help agreeing with you in that respect. 
Still—” 

“ Still here is security, a haven reached, a semi- 
comfortable life assured for your daughter ; in a 
word, a solution of the irksome problem of Miss 
Van Cleet’s future.” 


94 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


“Yes, my dear Mr. Laster, all this and more. 
But, I am going to be sincere and outspoken as 
usual : this marriage has not my approval, if I see 
my way clear toward — ” 

“ The realization of your long cherished aim, the 
social success and brilliant establishment of your 
daughter. Now, we spoke of that yesterday — ” 

“ Yes.” 

“And I gave you the chief points of a career 
which it would be my pride and delight to open 
before you and your daughter. Does that plan of 
mine meet with your approval ? ” 

“ It does, as I said before ; it does, in spite of 
the Van Rassel complication. Only that very com- 
plication renders its realization more difficult, since 
we have — ” 

“ Thank you. You said we. 9 * 

“Of course I did. Do I not trust you, in every 
way, in this matter?” 

“ I hope you do, and will. In that case, let me 
give you a few more details which will sweep from 
the ground most of the petty obstacles. You told 
me yesterday that you had some distant relatives 
in Great Britain ? ” 

“Did I say that? I do not remember it. Still, 
as a fact, I do have an old cousin there, three or 
four times removed, the widow of a General, Lady 
Mabel Fitz-Hugh, who lives at Hampton Court, and 
is one of the Queen’s own pensioners. I saw her 
once, half a dozen years ago. She must be eighty 
at least. I heard a year ago that she was alive yet.” 

“Now, suppose this, old kinswoman should 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


95 


deposit in your name, at Coutts’s, two or three 
thousand pounds, could that be easily explained, if 
curiosity were ever awakened ? ” 

Mrs. Van Cleet makes a pretense of studying the 
matter in her mind, then, finally, she says : 

“ I think it could.” 

“ Well,” continues Mr. Laster, with a sharp, busi- 
ness-like manner very different from the mannerisms 
of his debut; “ so far so good. To-day is Thursday. 
On Saturday next, Lady Mabel Fitz-Hugh shall 
have lodged three thousand pounds to your credit 
with Coutts & Co., Strand, London. All you’ll have 
to do will be to register your signature, and take 
out a check book. Now, there remains the Lance- 
lot question — ” 

“ Yes, I thought of that.” 

A slight smile flutters over Mr. Laster’s rather 
pale lips. His ally guesses that smile rather than 
sees it. Strange to say, it strengthens some mys- 
terious resolution of hers. One that he has no sus- 
picion of, though. She resumes : 

“ I thought that the only thing in such cases is 
flight — no struggle — no discussing matters — just 
flight.” 

“ That is the right principle in all love affairs,” 
remarks Laster, philosophically ; “ either win out- 
right or flee — ” 

“ So I am trying to imagine how we could be 
called away so quick — ” 

“ Why not receive a telegram from Lady Mabel 
Fitz-Hugh, this kind, accommodating old cousin?” 

“I think that might do quite well.” 


96 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ Then consider it as done. You will receive 
within two hours a London message, calling you 
to the sick bed of your venerable relative. Shall I 
have a compartment reserved for you in the Club 
Train , to-morrow?” 

“ This is very short notice, indeed. Still, it is, 
perhaps, for the best. I’ll say nothing to my peo- 
ple until the London telegram reaches me.” 

44 That’s right. I think I’ll go to-night. Lance- 
lot will see me off ; that may be wise. By the way, 
how are you going to settle with him ? ” 

44 I have to think the matter over carefully. 
After all, he is a worthy young man, and under 
other circumstances, quite acceptable indeed.” 

44 I understand you, belle dame" thinks Laster. 
44 You keep an anchor to windward until you see 
your way ahead, clear and safe. Well, that’s my 
own lookout.” And he answers aloud : 

44 Of course you’ll do everything for the best, and 
my questioning is idle. Now, for rooms in London, 
let me recommend Brooke’s, a family hotel just off 
Bond Street, as cosy and tastefully arranged a 
transient home as can be found. You may tele- 
graph for rooms yourself ; I’ll see that everything is 
attended to before you reach town. And now, since 
the main details are in such pleasant shape, I am 
off, myself ; for every minute of my time is to be 
absorbed, to-day, by a thousand and one bothers 
and things.” He had already risen from his seat, 
and was extending a cordial hand to Mrs. Van Cleet, 
who, taking and keeping it, said : 

“You understand, my dear friend, that I place 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


97 


myself and my daughter in your hands, and that the 
object we are going to aim at — all three together — 
is of the greatest importance. You have no hesita- 
tion, no doubt of ultimate success?” 

“ Miss Zelia’s success, my dear madam, will, from 
this day forth, be my affair, with your clever and ex- 
perienced assistance ; in fact, I shall depend on you, 
as much and more, than you will depend on me.” 

With that undisguised hint, expressed with the 
coolest of intonations, Cortlandt Laster shook re- 
peatedly the elderly lady’s hand, and left the room, 
on his various errands bent. 

Two hours later, as the Van Cleets were finishing 
their frugal luncheon, and discussing leisurely the 
minor topics of the day, a uniformed messenger was 
introduced by the maid. He handed to the mis- 
tress of the house one of the regulation blue envel- 
opes which she tore open with a great show of 
surprise, reading aloud its contents. 

From London, Charing Cross. 

To Mrs. Van Cleet, 

85 Rue de Balzac, Paris. 

We beg respectfully to inform you that your relative, Lady 
Mabel Fitz-Hugh, is dangerously ill at her residence in Hamp- 
ton Court Palace. Your immediate presence desirable. 

Morgan, Atherton & Morgan, Solicitors. 

210 Strand, E. C. 

“ Lady Mabel Fitz-Hugh ! ” exclaimed Zelia. “Is 
that the old cousin you spoke to me about so often, 
and who is to leave us a fortune?” 

“The same,” answered Mrs. Van Cleet, demurely, 
while signing the messenger’s receipt book. “What 
her fortune is, I have not* the vaguest idea. But 

Cortlandt — 7 


9 8 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


she is a dear old soul, and I cannot do less than to 
obey her commands.” 

“And go off to London at once?” asked the old 
Doctor, frightened already at any possible change 
in his hum-drum habits. 

“ I must think it over, for a moment at least, and 
very carefully too,” mused his wife. “ Of course, 
Paris is emptying fast, as far as our acquaintances 
are concerned — Mr. Lasterwas here this morning to 
say good bye — ” 

“What!” cried Zelia, in doubt whether to feel 
vexed or relieved. “ Mr. Laster is off for good?” 

“ He spoke of taking the next Cunarder for home, 
and left his kindest regards for you and father.” 

“ He ought to have come at a decent hour, and 
said his good byes himself,” remarks pettishly the 
spoiled beauty. An admirer, even an elderly one, 
never appears to better advantage than when he 
has just dropped out of sight. But, suddenly, Lance- 
lot’s image rises supreme and drives away all 
thoughts of the departed millionaire. 

“But, mother,” asks Zelia, “if you go to London, 
we go too, don’t we ? And in that case — ” 

She is cut short by the wise Mrs. Van Cleet, who 
says sharply : 

“ If you only will kindly give me time to breathe, I 
may manage to collect my scattered wits, and reach 
a common sense decision — Now, let me see — As I 
just said, Paris is getting duller and warmer every 
day ; all studies, of course, are suspended ; there are 
no plays worth seeing and nothing ahead for us to 
do, except broil in shabby solitude. On the other 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


99 


side, Cousin Mabel is very ill, perhaps dying, and 
she asks me to come to her, a request which it is 
neither charitable — nor wise — to decline obeying. 
We can easily find inexpensive quarters in the 
Hampton Court neighborhood, amidst pleasant sur- 
roundings. There is no trouble either, in our taking 
immediate French leave. In a few hours, the neces- 
sary details can be attended to — ” 

“ But, mamma, mamma!” cried out Zelia, in a 
wild fit of dismay, “you forget — ” 

“ I forget nothing, my child — on the contrary, I 
think all this can be turned to advantage in that 
matter you and I know all about.” 

The trusting girl ceased objecting, although her 
eyes preserved their questioning look. 

“ Just step into your room with me, darling,” said 
the mother, now fully decided to settle matters 
without further parley. “ I want to look over your 
things.” 

Once in the small, maidenly retreat, Mrs. Van 
Cleet said to Zelia, tenderly drawing the young girl 
toward her : 

“ My sweet love, you have full faith in me, have 
you not ? ” 

“ Oh mother !” is the only answer, but the tears rush 
to the lovely eyes. Does she instinctively feel the ex- 
ecutioner’s hand dragging her love away from her ? 

“ I only want to say this. I am going to act for the 
best, and protect your future happiness from bitter 
disillusion. To do so, you will do me just one favor.” 

“And what is it, mother?” asks the girl in piti- 
ful tones. 


IOO 


CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 


“You will simply sit down, here and now, and 
write to Lancelot Van Rassel a short note, some- 
what like this — Come, darling, it is not going to be 
as cruel as you think — just take courage and write — 
I have perhaps a glad surprise in reserve for you.” 

Perfectly at sea as to what is demanded of her, 
Zelia opens the escritoire, draws out a sheet of pearl 
gray linen note paper stamped with a silvered Z, 
and, pen in hand, awaits the announced words. 

There is a short, ominous silence ; then, the 
mother clears her voice, and dictates without a 
break : 

No. 85 Rue de Balzac. 

Paris, June — th, 188-. 

Dear Mr. Van Rassel: Mamma has just been sent for by 
our old cousin, Lady Mabel Fitz-Hugh, whose nearest relative 
she is. She is very ill at a place near London, and we are 
telegraphed to go to her at once, if we want to see her alive. 
So we think of starting to-morrow morning, and shall probably 
stay in London until September. Mamma wants me to say 
that we shall miss you very much indeed, and that you must 
look us up, when you pass through London, on your way home. 
Who know T s but that we may be tempted to cross the big pond 
ourselves, before long? Mamma says that you must be sure 
and write to her very soon. She will answer you at once, as 
she wishes you to consider us always as your sincere friends. 

Believe me, my dear Mr. Van Rassel, 

Yours faithfully, Zelia Van Cleet. 

“Is that all, mamma? ” queries the maiden dis- 
consolately. 

“No no, there is a postscript,” answers the 
mother with a pleasant smile. 

P. S. — I had a long, long talk with mamma yesterday even- 
ing, and she is not so very, very angry after all. She only 
wants to know you better — a great deal better. You may 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


IOI 


perhaps manage to stay in London for a couple of weeks in 
September. 

“ Oh ! you darling Mamma ! ” cries the girl, jump- 
ing up, her face wreathed in smiles. “You are 
so good, and so clever, and such a sweet, sweet 
Mamma.” 

They kiss over and over again, and then, to busi- 
ness, the letter having to be duly folded, sealed and 
mailed. 

“ With the usual slow delivery of the Paris Post- 
office,” thinks the shrewd intriguer, “ my young 
man will not have this before his breakfast to-mor- 
row morning. We shall have been an hour on the 
train, by that time.” 

The rest of the day was spent in bustling prepara- 
tions for the sudden move, the natural genius of 
Mrs. Van Cleet for every practical feature of life’s 
work shining brightly in just such circumstances. 

No incident intervened between this first act in 
the scenario, so well staged by the conspirators, and 
the arrival of the Van Cleet party in London, at 
Brooke’s. On the next day, Mrs. Van Cleet drove 
all alone to Hampton Court, and there, at the lovely 
Inn that one finds so close to the Park gate, she 
meets her elderly cousin ; but, curious to say, she 
assumes the garb and features of Cortlandt Laster. 
The immediate plans are fully rehearsed, even to 
the minor details. Laster is not to show himself at 
Brooke’s at all, during the stay of the family, and 
even, to avoid all undesirable meetings, is to run 
over to Brighton for a week. In the meantime, Lady 
Mabel Fitz-Hugh, who, by the way, has truly existed 


102 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

in the flesh but has surrendered her selfish old soul 
some six months ago — Lady Mabel Fitz-Hugh 
has to be disposed of, and buried, on the double 
quick, her lawyers being entrusted with the pleasant 
task of handing over to Mrs. Van Cleet a neat little 
income, with a sum in cash sufficient for a comfort- 
able establishment. Mourning duly bought and 
donned, a first class footman added to the family’s 
retinue of one, and sundry paraphernalia procured 
as the visible tokens of the newly acquired affluence, 
the Van Cleets are to leave for New York, with a 
view of giving their daughter all the advantages of 
American social life, at its best. 

All of which — as the lawyers say — was accom- 
plished and realized according to schedule. Just 
two weeks prudently husbanded, with not an awk- 
ward word being uttered by the main spirit of the 
whole enterprise, landed the party on board the 
Aiirania, in the crowded Mersey, en route for the 
pleasures and surprises of home. 

Of Lancelot hardly a word was said, during that 
whole fortnight, so excited had his little sweetheart 
become, since her sudden change of fate and fortune. 
And then she could stifle her remorse — if any trou- 
bled her birdie-brains — with the thought that the 
next season would surely find them face to face, 
Lancelot and Zelia, in the drawing rooms of the 
Metropolis, 

But Cortlandt Laster was not to remain so long 
out of his young charmer’s sight or remembrance. 
For, as the huge ocean-racer steamed into the green- 
girthed bay of Queenstown, the tender brought on 


A GOOD DAY’S WORK 


103 


board, with the latest mails, no other grandee than 
the quiet and courteous elderly gentleman whose 
check was good, any time and almost anywhere, 
for a cool million dollars in hard cash. 

And who clapped her hancfs, in childish glee, as 
he walked, hat in hand, toward the Van Cleet group, 
but Zelia herself, jumping from her steamer chair, 
and crying out merrily : 

“Mamma! just look, here is Mr. Laster! now 
is’nt that delightful! ” 


VI 

THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 

Erastus Apgar, the sparkling young novelist whom 
his friends have dubbed “ Schopenhauer’s nephew,” 
just as the famous French writer, Edmond About, 
used to be called “ The grandson of Voltaire,” was 
leaning against the arcade dividing Angelo Malaga’s 
reception hall from his new, bridal-looking, white 
and gold ball-room. 

The keen blue eyes of the young man, heavily 
shaded with dark lashes, and strikingly expressive 
in spite of the glasses he sports constantly, were 
scrutinizing, with silent sarcasm, the incoming 
guests at the “ Grandfathers’ Grandsons” ’ Spring as- 
sembly. The hour was half-past eleven ; the day, 
the eve of the accidental meeting between Taster 
and d’lmeguy in the salons of the Central Club. 

The “ Grandfathers’ Grandsons ” is the sobriquet 
given to a very smart combination of youngish so- 
ciety men, who bring together, three times during the 
season, the cream of the cream of New York swell- 
dom. The members, sixty in number, are all still on 

(104) 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 


105 


the right side of forty, and called sometimes on that 
account “ The Youngsters,” in contradistinction to 
the “ Patriarchs,” a more demure organization of 
much older standing. But they recruit their fair 
guests, from the very same ranks as the Patriarchs, 
and the tone of these reunions is just as character- 
istic of the special method of amusing themselves 
which has been adopted of late by the “ nobs ” and 
“ snobs” of the McAllister elite. 

Close to the observer, on the other side of the 
slender pillar, stands Andrew Waters, a tall, hand- 
some man of leisure, with a swarthy complexion and 
a pointed beard, who counts among the few inti- 
mates of the Mephistophelian litterateur. The two 
are exchanging short remarks testifying to their 
pretty accurate knowledge of their surroundings: 

“ People are coming in early, this evening ; don’t 
you think so?” drawls out Apgar, who is every- 
thing except American in his ways and accent. 

“ There is nothing else of any interest on the cards 
to-night,” answers his friend. “ Opera closed a 
fortnight ago, and the Van Blick ball has been post- 
poned one week.” 

“Oh! yes — on account of Mrs. Van Blick’s latest 
quarrel with her husband. They say that he has 
been of late extravagantly attentive to Baroness von 
Springbock, his wife’s bosom friend.” 

“Yes, and both the Baroness and Sam Van Blick 
showed themselves hilariously jolly in the billiard 
room, after the last Sunday dinner; hence the row, 
and the postponement of the Van Blick function. 
Sam is off on his yacht for a week.” 


106 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“Mrs. Van Blick is here, all the same?” 

“Yes; but, you know, she had to show off her 
new diamond tiara ; Mrs. Eddie Laster was to inaugu- 
rate hers to-night.” 

“ That’s so. I noticed that double constellation 
on the reception committee.” 

“Oh! here is dear Mother Passavent and her 
two titled daughters. One can hear her voice a 
mile off.” 

“ Don’t speak ill of her : she is delightful in spite 
of her inborn vulgarity. And then, she is the 
only woman in the whole crowd who is free of all 
affectation.” 

“Funny, though, to see her, the widow of an ex- 
bartender, amidst that blue-blooded gentry.” 

“ Blue-blooded they were, but now the color of 
the said fluid may indeed be called nondescript.” 

“ May be. Still, here is Scarborough coming in, 
with his fat, elderly bride on his arm. This Duke 
and Peer of old England found this mature New 
York beauty well-born enough for him.” 

“Argent conipt ant, yes — Hallo! here is Cortlandt 
Laster alone. Where is his wife?” 

“Didn’t you know? She left for Europe, last 
Saturday, with the girls. There is some sort of a 
row in the menage A 

“What about? Hasn’t the old lady resigned her- 
self, long ago, to her husband’s mild pranks — ” 

“ But they whisper that it’s not a mild prank he 
was guilty of, this time, but a downright insult to 
Madam Laster’s dignity as a wife and mother ” 

“You don’t say so! Is Laster growing reck- 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 107 

less as he gets older? What’s the trouble any- 
how ? ” 

“ I can hardly tell you just now, but if you listen 
to the gossips to-night, you are sure to learn all I 
know, and more. It’s all about that new beauty, 
the 4 bud in chief,’ as they call her, Zelia Van 
Cleet.” 

“ Now, now, you are joking! ” 

“ Excuse me, I am only repeating other people’s 
jokes.” 

“ But Madame Laster had taken up the girl her- 
self all the season through?” 

“That’s just it. Then the flash of lightning came 
down from a clear sky — and the elderly lady is off 
to Europe. Vous comprenez? 

“You’ll have to tell me all about it, by-and-by. 
That’s a real ‘ document,’ as Zola would call it. 
Oh ! here is Marchesa San Martino — excuse me, 
dear boy.” 

And Erastus Apgar brought the power of his fas- 
cination to bear upon one of the incoming beauties, 
quite a delightful blonde, who seemed to reserve for 
him one of her most radiant smiles. 

The rooms were now filling fast. As is custom- 
ary in such organizations, each member or sub- 
scriber had received a stated number of invitations, 
which he was supposed to divide among mutual 
acquaintances. To those, were added a few for- 
eigners of distinction, and some very rare outsiders, 
generally chosen among those numerous nouveaux 
> riches who try to get out of their money all the sat- 
isfaction their vanity craves for. By the very weight 


108 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

of their enormous bank accounts, they generally filter 
within the hallowed circle, pushing slowly to the 
wall the older families less successful in the money- 
making marts. 

Toward midnight, the ladies who had previously 
acted as reception committee began to move in the 
direction of the main hall, the Hungarian band, in 
its flower-trimmed gallery, striking up one of its 
most brilliant waltzes. Pretty Mrs. Eddie Laster, 
leaning on the Duke of Scarborough’s arm, walked 
slowly around the wide dancing room. She was 
talking with her usual vivacity, trying to lighten up 
the face of her cavalier, a short, stout, heavy fea- 
tured Briton, not at all the type of the irresistible 
Don Juan held up so often, by imaginative report- 
ers, to the animadversion of the pious. Still, a 
twinkle in his small, piercing eyes, showed that the 
Englishman “ took it all in.” 

“ Has Your Grace found your short stay in New 
York pleasant?” ventured to ask Mrs. Laster, Jr. 

“ Indeed I have, Mrs. Laster; the Duchess and I 
have been welcomed by our old friends, in the most 
charming manner.” 

“Oh, I know that. How could it be otherwise? 
But I meant, has Your Grace found anything to 
amuse you in our mild New York social recrea- 
tions?” 

“ Certainly, I have. Your receptions are gotten 
up in perfect taste, and your theatres are well worth 
attending. Your amateurs even are far above our 
English average. Yesterday for instance — ” 

“ Oh! did Your Grace attend the performance at 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 109 

the 4 Madison ’ for the benefit of the ‘ Old Cripples’ 
Hospital ’ ? ” 

“I did; and I positively enjoyed myself. There 
was a young lady in the cast who belongs in no wise 
to the amateur class. She must certainly have had 
some pretty thorough French training.” 

“ Your Grace means Miss Zelia Van Cleet, I sup- 
pose?” said, rather stiffly, Mrs. Laster, Jr. “Yes, 
the girl has been trained for the stage. Her parents 
lost all their money, during the war, down in Ten- 
nessee, and I understand that they settled in Paris 
years ago, with a view of launching their daughter 
on a professional careen Last summer, however, an 
old English relation of theirs died, and left them 
some money.” 

“That’s quite a romantic story, Mrs. Laster,” 
remarked the Duke, whose old instincts as a Lovelace 
always on the rampage were far more dormant than 
extinct. 

“Well, I don’t know about that. It is only 
money, after all, that appears to have been the 
mover of this young destiny. Old Lady Mabel 
Fitz-Hugh once dead — ” 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Laster, but did you say, Lady 
Mabel Fitz-Hugh?” 

“ That’s the name, yes. Did Your Grace know 
her? ” 

“ Indeed I did, and I was quite fond of the dear 
old soul ; more on account of her husband, though, 
General Sir McVeagh Fitz-Hugh, who was my com- 
mander in the Ashantee war. I used to drop in at 
Hampton Court, at regular intervals, and have little 


IIO CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

chats over old times with dear Lady Fitz-Hugh. 
And so, the pretty girl of yesterday’s performance 
was some relation of hei^ ? ” 

“ At least her mother was ; and Lady Fitz-Hugh 
left her quite a competence.” 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Laster, we cannot possibly mean 
the same Lady Fitz-Hugh. My Lady Fitz-Hugh, 
the daughter of an impecunious Irish Earl, had no 
fortune outside of her pension as the widow of a 
Major-General. I know this for a fact ; my solicitor 
had charge of the old lady’s little affairs, and I saw 
him the day of the funeral, I think in January or 
February of last year.” 

With unfeigned surprise, Mrs. Eddie Laster 
looked up at her companion, saying with a slight 
show of excitement : 

“I- agree with Your Grace; we are certainly not 
speaking of the same Lady Fitz-Hugh, for I remember 
distinctly Mrs. Van Gleet saying that she had buried 
her Lady Fitz Hugh last July.” 

“ I see, I see,” replied the Duke. There must be 
some confusion. Singular, though, singular.” 

At that moment, the distinguished couple, the 
cynosure of all eyes, had reached the further end 
of the hall. As they turned round to retrace their 
steps, they noticed a group of newcomers just pass- 
ing under the arcade. On the arm of Mr. Cortlandt 
Laster, Mrs. Van Cleet was sailing in, in all the 
glory of a Worth costume of appropriate splendor, 
whilst Lancelot Van Rassel, one of the members of 
the “ Youngsters” organization, was escorting Zelia 
Van Cleet, clad in a lovely gown of snowy white 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 


III 


tulle, all covered with embroidered flowers and 
ferns. Her expression was so radiantly happy that 
her shapely head seemed bathed in a sweet halo of 
bliss. It needed but one look to discover that it 
was not the pride of success alone that could bring 
such a light in the young girl’s eyes. And besides, 
there was in the whole person of Zelia Van Cleet a 
something which revealed her as a very different 
creature indeed from the docile maiden of the Rue de 
Balzac. Six months of reign as a society favorite, 
and a light touch of the wand of Love, had sufficed 
to bring out of the chrysalis this dazzling vision of 
beauty — sensuous, ethereal, complete. 

Without raising her voice, she said to her com- 
panion, with a very sweet glance that did not fail to 
strike home : 

“ I can’t tell you how delighted we were, Mamma 
and I, when we received your cards for this eve- 
ning’s reception. I had ventured to drop you a 
note about them, although you seemed to have 
deserted us, all through Lent — ” 

“Oh! I was South all this month and last,” inter- 
rupted Lancelot hastily ; “ but I was much pleased 
to reach town, in time to secure for you these invi- 
tations. There are so few of them, you know, and 
they are almost all reserved for the subscribers’ fami- 
lies. I did a little hustling, though, pour vos bequx 
yeux — and for the sake of old times,” he added, 
lowering his voice. 

“ But old times are never old, you know, for those 
who have a good memory,” she remarked with a 
slight blush that became her to perfection. 


1 12 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

She felt surprised and somewhat hurt that such a 
clear allusion to the mute understanding still extant 
between them, since the Bois de Boulogne incident, 
should not meet with prompt appreciation on Lance- 
lot’s part. The young man simply bowed his 
head, in due courtesy, not even lifting his eyes 
toward her. A minute later, a number of Miss Van 
Cleet’s most enthusiastic admirers were grouped 
around her, clamoring for recognition, and begging 
for this quadrille or that waltz. Lancelot walked 
away with a silent bow. 

He was not to go far before being assailed by the 
clear, sharp voice of Mrs. Passavent, calling him to 
her side. She took his arm unceremoniously, and 
walked him in short order, to one of the dainty 
boudoirs where tete-a-tetes were in order. There, 
stopping short, she said, with the familiarity of an 
old, fearless friend : 

“ So you have put your foot in it, my poor Lance- 
lot, and taken that Doctor’s wife and her progeny 
under your wing? Hardly clever for the old 
stager you are getting to be.” 

“ You’ll excuse me, my dear Mrs. Passavent,” 
answered Van Rassel rather coldly, “ but I fail to 
understand your meaning ? ” 

“ Then you must have been out of town, or sick 
in bed for a month or so, otherwise — ” 

“ Otherwise ?” queried Lancelot. 

“ Otherwise you would know that there are some 
pretty queer stories afloat anent those women, and 
that they have to be cleared up satisfactorily before 
we open to them such reunions as these.” 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 


”3 


“ I am deeply sorry to hear of anything unpleas- 
ant being gossiped about concerning Mrs. Van Cleet 
and Miss Van Cleet ; but since Mrs. Laster and her 
set have taken them up, there can not possibly be 
much in them.” 

“Mrs. Laster left New York, on Saturday, my 
dear boy.” 

“Yes, I know, but ” — 

“ And she left in a hurry, too — and this is a fact," 
added Mrs. Passavent with marked emphasis. 

“ But what has that to do with — ” 

“ It has everything to do.” 

“Still, Mr. Laster himself escorted Mrs. Van 
Cleet into the ball-room.” 

“ He had to.” 

“What?” 

“ I mean, it was his only way to try and close up 
people’s mouths. But it won’t work. It is not my 
business to tell you any more, my dear boy. Only 
if I were you, I would induce your fair friends to 
leave early, very early — ” 

Lancelot started back : 

“ Then you think that they might be shown some 
coolness ? ” 

“ They’ll be cut dead by every woman in the place, 
my poor fellow.” 

Lancelot bit his lips, whilst a bitter frown dark- 
ened his brow. He said, between his teeth : 

“ I think that would be very hard on them, and 
on me.” 

“ That’s just why I wanted to warn you in time, 
my boy; trust an old friend like me to come up to 

Cortlandt— 8 


1 14 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

the scratch whenever it’s necessary. And now bring 
me back to my girls.” 

The two walked silently into the main room 
again, the experienced eye of Lancelot noticing 
right away that no lady, not one, was to be found 
in the immediate neighborhood of the Van Cleets. 
The crowd of men, though, had so far effectually 
concealed the ominous boycotting of the weaker 
sex. The inborn courtesy of Van Rassel was now 
on its mettle ; these ladies, his own guests for the 
evening, had to be saved, at all risks, from the com- 
ing affront. What he thought a heaven-sent inspi- 
ration flashed through his brain, and he had not left 
Mrs. Passavent’s side for one minute before he fol- 
lowed the rescuing impulse. Walking toward the 
outer room, he motioned an old servant of the Van 
Rassel family, and said a few words to him in a 
whispered aside. Then he stood under the arched 
opening, awaiting developments. 

In an instant, matters took the shape he wanted. 
A footman crossed the hall, and approaching Mrs. 
Van Cleet, said something to her, with a defer- 
ential bow. The old lady seemed much disturbed, 
and motioned to Zelia to come to her. The two 
ladies, whose faces betrayed a growing agitation, 
stood up now in rapid consultation. They addressed 
a few hurried words to the gentlemen in close at- 
tendance, and accepting the proffered arms, started 
toward the reception room. 

There happened to be a lull, just then, in the 
orchestral music, and this peculiar move, at such an 
early hour, attracted at once a very marked atten- 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 11$ 

tion. Lancelot, from his post of vantage, could 
hardly fail to perceive what interpretation the 
guests of the evening were setting on this sudden 
departure, and himself hastened now toward the 
cloak-rooms, calling out for Mrs. and Miss Van 
Cleet’s wraps, and commissioning a porter near by 
to call for the ladies’ barouche. 

Then he turned round and met Mrs. Van Cleet 
as she emerged from the main hall. 

“ I am so sorry, dear Mrs. Van Cleet/' he ex- 
claimed, “ but a messenger just arrived from your 
house, stating that the Doctor is not well at all to- 
night — nothing serious, I earnestly hope, but still 
they seem to want you both over there." 

“But where is the messenger?” cried out Mrs. 
Van Cleet. 

“ I took the liberty of sending him at once for 
Dr. Bardyce Faker," replied Lancelot, bent on re- 
moving every suspicion, in the minds of the escort- 
ing gentlemen as well as of the interested parties 
themselves. 

Zelia, a great favorite with her father, seemed 
almost unable to restrain her tears, whilst her 
mother, perhaps more disappointed than grieved, 
kept on repeating : 

“ Oh ! that’s too bad, that’s too bad." 

Whether the exclamation referred to this break 
in her triumphal march, or to the Doctor’s threaten- 
ing illness, no one could have told. 

All the same, she was wrapped up in her furs, and 
her daughter enveloped in her swan’s down cloak, 
before she had time to make herself better under- 


II 6 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

stood. Both went down the stairs, the mother lean- 
ing upon Lancelot’s arm. So sudden had been their 
departure, that Cortlandt* Laster had not even 
noticed it yet. The ladies, ensconced in their car- 
riage were about addressing a doleful good-bye to 
Van Rassel, when the young man, coolly and un- 
invited, entered the barouche, and seating himself on 
the unoccupied front-seat, said : 

“ I could not think of letting you drive home 
alone, under the circumstances, my dear Mrs. Van 
Cleet.” 

The door was closed with a clash, and the carriage 
rolled rapidly toward the Van Cleets’ home, a few 
streets north of Forty-second Street. 

The short trip was accomplished in silence, inter- 
rupted only by Zelia’s audible sobs and Mrs. Van 
Cleet’s desultory remarks about the Doctor’s general 
state of health, and her utter surprise on hearing 
of a sudden turn for the worse. Lancelot ventured 
no answer, as he reserved the terribly vexing ex- 
planation of his conduct for an immediate personal 
interview with Mrs. Van Cleet alone. 

The carriage stops, the footman rings the bell, 
and the door of the house being thrown open by the 
astonished butler, he opens, in his turn, that of the car- 
riage. In answer to his mistress’s hurried question, 

“ What does James say about your master?” he 
answers, stolidly : 

“ He says nothing, Ma’am.” 

“ Nothing ! This is most extraordinary.” She 
goes up the steps without noticing the proffered arm 
of Van Rassel, and cries out to the butler: 


THE VEIL IS TORN ASIDE 


II 7 


“ Is the Doctor any worse ? ” 

“ Not that I know of, Madam,” answers the ser- 
vant, with wide-open eyes, “ Master was sleeping 
sweetly when I last went to his room, an hour ago.” 

“ Then what does all this silly fuss mean?” cries 
the irate matron, tufning toward Lancelot, who hat 
in hand, stands motionless, in the hall, beside the 
dumfounded Zelia. 

He answers with evident uneasiness: 

“I think I can solve the riddle, my 'dear Mrs. 
Van Cleet, if you will kindly grant me five minutes 
to do so.” 

The old lady, who had already made a move as if 
to re-enter her carriage and drive back to the ball, 
seems struck by something peculiar in the young 
man’s voice or words. She replies nothing, but 
simply enters the tea-room to the right, all lighted 
up and a wood fire shining in the grate. As Zelia 
follows, she looks at her, quietly saying : 

“ You had better run up to get your things off, 
dear.” 

The girl vanishes obediently, the door closes, and 
Lancelot is now face to face with the most distaste- 
ful task of his life. He takes the bull by the horns 
though, with grim determination, and says : 

“ The doctor is as well as ever, my dear Mrs. Van 
Cleet ; and I had no reason to think otherwise when 
I sent you that servant to call you out of the ball- 
room.” 

‘“Well, well, I declare, that’s the most astounding 
piece of — ” 

“A moment, please, Mrs. Van Cleet. I am not a 


1 1 8 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

baby, nor a disgusting practical joker, to play ugly 
pranks without a motive. Five minutes before you 
left the rooms, I was notified, officially notified, I 
might say, that you were — you and Miss Zelia both 
— to be mercilessly snubbed to-night, by all the 
ladies present.” 

Mrs. Van Cleet blanched to the lips. 

“ Snubbed — snubbed — ” she managed to say. 
“ The hussies — I ought to have known that they 
could not stand Zelia’s beauty.” 

“ That may be the cause, and it may not be,” said 
Lancelot, feeling more and more the terrible situa- 
tion the woman was thrown into without a mo- 
ment’s warning ; “ Things being so, I had to cover 
the retreat, as best I could, and — ” 

“And you have caused us to walk out like con- 
fessed culprits ! ” cried Mrs. Van Cleet, rising in her 
wrath. “You whose guests we were, have dragged 
us out, covered with mud and shame from head to 
foot, rather than champion chivalrously the poor 
women you had brought into such an infamous 
trap ! Your conduct was that of a coward, Mr. Van 
Rassel, and I say so to your face.” 

An agonized cry answered the insult. She turned 
around. Zelia was there, standing before the open 
door, her eyes transfixed in an expression of unuttera- 
ble despair. The mother seized her fainting, shudder- 
ing form, and with one imperious look, she added : 

“You can go, now, Lancelot Van Rassel; you 
have done us enough harm for one night.” 

And almost carrying in her arms the unconscious 
Zelia, she walked out of the room. 


VII 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 

The next day, Cortlandt Laster woke up rather 
early, in his bedroom at the Union Club, where he 
kept bachelor’s hall whenever Mrs. Laster thought 
proper to absent herself from the matrimonial hori- 
zon. It was not by any means the first time that 
the said horizon had been clouded through the vola- 
tile husband’s own misdeeds, but it had never before 
assumed so stormy and so thoroughly threatening an 
aspect. Although over a week old, by this time, the 
memory of the incident which had brought down 
the thunder clap rankled yet within the worthy gen- 
tleman’s breast. And, to all outward appearances, 
he was perhaps entitled to believe himself most 
unfairly treated. 

To begin at the beginning, it may just as well 
be stated, right here, that the occult hopes and 
plans of Cortlandt Laster anent this lovely protegee 
of his, Zelia Van Cleet, had been, so far, foiled in 
every particular, through Miss Van Cleet’s mother’s 
shrewd and tactful management. 

(i 19) 


120 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

In fact, his candidacy as an admirer-in-chief of the 
youthful beauty had never been recognized on the 
part of the very women he had so generously ush- 
ered upon the New York society platform. 

It certainly could not be said that the nature of his 
intercourse with the unconsciously ungrateful Zelia 
had been altered in the least from what it had been dur- 
ing his many summer visits in the shabby apartment 
of No. 85, Rue de Balzac, and that absence of pro- 
gress in his courtship had contributed, not a little, 
to exasperate, and fan into an over-mastering pas- 
sion, what had really been, at first, only the pro- 
nounced fancy of an unscrupulous rout. 

Love of that nature, when it gets hold of a man 
of fifty has always proved a very dangerous 
plaything indeed. As a just retribution for past 
offenses, the would-be seducer has been known to 
run through a pretty narrow lane — angusta via — 
of disagreeable and contradictory emotions, not of 
the healthiest for an already much abused nervous 
system. And the brains of those elderly Lotharios 
have often ended by giving way and softening dis- 
astrously, under the strain of their Tantalus-like 
disappointments. 

Without having reached yet this deplorable 
termination of most high-livers’ careers, Cortlandt 
Laster had, however, manifested of late the serious- 
ness of his infatuation in a manner which was to 
cause, in the same week, a grave breach in his mari- 
tal intercourse, and the annihilation of Mrs. Van 
Cleet’s fond hopes to obtain a permanent footing 
within the inner circle of New York Society. 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 


1 2 1 


In a word, Cortlandt Laster had allowed himself, 
oblivious of past experiences and of many inward 
pledges, to become openly jealous of the young girl 
he had so adroitly foisted upon his unsuspecting 
wife’s patronage. 

And that single explosion of youthful eccentrici- 
ty had taken place at a most unfortunate moment; 
under his own roof, at Newport, during Easter 
week ; and at the luncheon table around which sat, 
in blissful ignorance of the coming revelation, Mrs. 
Laster and her daughters, and, among the few 
guests brought over from New York to hunt up the 
first verdure of Spring, Mrs. Van Cleet and Zelia. 

A late morning mail had been brought in, just at 
the close of the meal, and Mrs. Laster had graciously 
given the example of opening the many letters and 
notes delivered to herself and her guests. In truth, 
it was quite an informal gathering, for the hostess, 
conservative and rather old fashioned in her ways as 
she was, had gradually admitted the Van Cleets, the 
daughter much closer than the mother, into her 
kindest intimacy. 

For that very reason, she did not mind exclaim- 
ing good-humoredly, as she threw an open letter on 
the table before her : 

“ So Lancelot Van Rassel is expected back from 
Florida in a day or two — His mother writes me how 
delighted she is. I have a great mind to have him 
here for the rest of our stay. What do you think 
of that, young ladies ? ” and the good woman 
glanced archly toward Zelia, who was blushing the 
most tell-tale of blushes. 


122 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


Cortlandt Laster looked up from his paper, and 
took the whole situation in, in an instant. 

“ I like Lancelot very much ! ” exclaimed rather 
gushingly the elder of the Laster girls, not particu- 
larly pretty, and already on the wrong side of 
twenty-five. 

“ Yes, let us have him here by all means ! ” cried 
Margaret Caster, the younger daughter, a fresh- 
looking, square-shouldered maiden, “ quite English, 
you know,” in style and manner. “ His tennis play- 
ing is simply perfect ! ” 

Zelia Van Cleet kept silent, her eyes lowered up- 
on the table-cloth, but with a slight flutter of the 
nostrils denoting an unmistakable emotion. 

Cortlandt Laster drew a long breath, as he threw 
himself back in his chair, saying in a peremptory 
voice : 

“ I don’t care to*have Mr. Van Rassel here just 
now.” 

Mrs. Laster looked up, surprised at the unusually 
discourteous outburst. So did Zelia, whose eyes 
fixed the last speaker with a decidedly unkind ex- 
pression. He noticed it evidently, for he added, 
with an extra amount of harshness in his tone : 

“ Lancelot Van Rassel is no* a desirable associate 
for young girls.” 

Mrs. Laster was about interfering, to avoid fur- 
ther unpleasant remarks, when Zelia said, with a 
biting sarcasm in her voice, which no pleading look 
from her mother could soften : 

“ Your opinion of Mr. Van Rassel is much altered, 
Mr. Laster, from what it was last year, in Paris.” 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 1 23 

“ What do you mean, Miss Van Cleet, if I may be 
allowed to ask ? ” 

“ I mean that .when you and he did us the honor 
to call, almost every day, at our little home in Paris, 
last June, you thought the world of Mr. Van Rassel, 
and never failed to say so.” 

To all but the host and hostess, and Mrs. Van 
Cleet, the remark might have seemed harmless 
enough, although perhaps not in very good form. 
But to those three, it was indeed pregnant with 
trouble. In the heat of the moment though, Laster 
forgot his worldly cunning, and went blindly into 
the fray. Jealous, you know, and an unsuccessful 
woer, and fifty ! So he retorted : 

“ I learned to understand him better this winter, 
Miss Van Cleet — in your father’s house.” 

There was a painful blush upon the girl’s face 
when she replied, this time in a low and almost 
tremulous voice : 

“ Lancelot has always proved a very kind and faith- 
ful friend.” 

The fully aroused Laster was about answering 
back some taunting remark, when he noticed the 
pallor of his wife, whilst she stared at the two 
speakers in dumb amazement. Think of it : the 
poor woman had never been told, to this day, that 
her husband had been, for weeks, a daily visitor 
to the Van Cleets’ Paris home ! For sundry rea- 
sons, Mrs. Van Cleet and Mr. Laster had agreed 
to date back their renewal of acquaintanceship only 
from the return trip on the Aurania ; the Tennessee 


124 CORTLANDT FASTER, CAPITALIST 

episode being of course preserved for the sake of 
auld lang syne. 

So that the singular quarrel between the host and 
his beautiful guest, acting like a case of spontaneous 
combustion, had thrown a glaring light over Laster’s 
systematic deceit towards his confiding wife. She 
had trusted him at least to respect the sanctity of 
her home and his, and not to use her as a cat’s- 
paw to draw into his grasp the fair young beauties 
that could not be tempted otherwise within his 
meshes. 

In a second, with the true intuition of a wife and 
mother, Mrs. Laster had unraveled the whole plot, 
and her heart filled up to the breaking point with 
shame and grief. Almost the only tie that bound 
her still to her wayward husband had now snapped 
in two. 

She rose silently from her seat, affecting to have 
missed the import of the last few phrases ; but her 
trembling lips and tottering steps betrayed but too 
clearly the anguish she was undergoing. Helped 
by her daughters, who had rushed to her side with 
tender words of concern, she walked to the door, 
without vouchsafing one look to either her husband 
or Mrs. Van Cleet. Indeed, she was gone, and the 
door had closed behind her, before either of the 
initiated had realized the intense gravity of the 
incident. 

An hour later, a formal, but strictly polite note 
was brought to Mrs. Van Cleet’s room. It was 
signed “ Adelaide Redington Laster,” and begged 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 


125 


“Mrs. Van Cleet to excuse her if, in the suddenly 
disturbed state of her health, she could not act any 
longer as her hostess.” Mr. Laster had gone that 
afternoon by train to Boston, to fulfill a previous 
appointment. The same evening, the Van Cleets, 
and, with them, the few other visitors at the Laster 
Villa, left for their respective homes. No suspicion 
seemed to have entered, so far, the minds of the 
witnesses to the morning incident.- And, though 
deeply worried, and with a distinct presentiment of 
trouble ahead, Mrs. Van Cleet had refrained from 
showing her daughter any discontent, or from mani- 
festing any undue surprise at the sudden ending of 
their Newport Easter outing. 

On the Saturday following, Mrs. Laster sailed for 
Europe with her daughters, breaking a number of 
engagements of diverse nature she had entered into 
for April and May. This unexpected departure set 
people a-thinking, and the facts of the luncheon 
quarrel and the hostess’ sudden illness, began to be 
variously commented upon. The Redington crowd, 
— Mrs. Laster’s own family — quietly unearthed 
many awkward details concerning the intercourse 
between Cortlandt Laster and the Van Cleet ladies 
— and, like a mighty cyclone, there arose a tumult 
of adverse judgment against the new-comers. It 
was to culminate, as we have seen, at the “ Grand- 
fathers’ Grandsons” ’ Assembly, and to ring the 
death knell of all Mrs. Van Cleet’s social ambitions. 

There had been no open breach, however, be- 
tween Cortlandt Laster and his wife ; not even a 
conjugal discussion of the cruel facts so ruthlessly 


126 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

revealed to the old lady* In her natural pride as an 
irreproachable wife, Mrs. Laster had declined to 
fathom the abyss of iniquity of the vileness of 
which Fate had apprised her in this singular man- 
ner. Nor did she care to know whether the detest- 
able plans laid out by her husband, when, in the fall 
of the preceding year, he had craftily managed to 
have her interest herself “ in these old, deserving 
Tennessee friends of his,” Dr. and Mrs. Van Cleet, 
and incidentally — very incidentally — Zelia Van 
Cleet, had reached or not their natural and abomin- 
able climax. One thing only, the poor woman knew 
and cried over with infinite bitterness : through a 
deliberate falsification of facts, she had been induced 
to count among her personal friends, and to intro- 
duce everywhere as such, an unscrupulous, plotting 
mother, and a daughter — doubtless as contemptible 
— both the secret protegees of her profligate hus- 
band. And the very fact that Cortlandt Laster 
agreed, so unresistingly, to her unexplained change 
of plans for the spring and summer, was to his 
wife the shameless confirmation of her worst sus- 
picions. 

She even came to think that perhaps she was 
playing into his hands now, in thus withdrawing 
from the scene of action, her part in the preliminary 
piece fully accomplished to the satisfaction of the 
treacherous conspirators. 

Still, her disgust was too deep to allow her to stay 
and counteract the designs of that abhorred trio. 
Fly she must, silent, and her eyes lowered as if 
under the weight of an immeasurable shame, away 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 1 27 

* 

from this cesspoof of corruption, away from the 
comments of the crowd that could not fail to burst 
out at an early day, away even from the unbearable 
marks of sympathy that she felt about to be lavished 
upon her bowed head. 

So she had gone, with her daughters and a small 
retinue of old body-servants, and not a word of ex- 
planation had been exchanged between husband 
and wife. Still — singular to say — on waking up, that 
bright April morning, the first thought of Cortlandt 
Laster went to the gray-haired traveller, the sweet- 
heart of his college days, the ever-patient, ever- 
resigned companion of his life, upon whom he had 
inflicted such infinite grief with the selfish brutality 
of the thorough and incurable egotist. 

Then his mind, by a natural association of ideas, 
turned to Zelia, the cause of all this disturbance, to 
that “ little friend of his,” who was yet just as far 
from him as if he had not poured, in eight months’ 
time, something like sixty thousand dollars into her 
mother’s lap ; to Zelia, who had shown in Lancelot 
Van Rassel, the night before, such undeniable inter- 
est, even accepting his escort home, when the news 
of the Doctor’s sudden indisposition had caused the 
Van Cleets’ brusque departure. 

And, although unaware as yet of the true motive 
of this withdrawal, Cortlandt Laster, to whom no 
one in the ball-room had dared to give a hint as to 
the real state of affairs and the projected boycotting 
of the Van Cleet ladies, turned round uneasily upon 
his bed of roses (metaphorical), and, prodded by the 
green-eyed demon, began to curse between his teeth 


128 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

* 

the day he had placed his obstinate fancy into the. 
keeping of this “ heartless little flirt.” 

Sylvester, his own valet, entered the room noise- 
lessly, to reconnoitre how the land lay, and whether 
his assistance would soon be acceptable. He held a 
bundle of letters and papers in his hands. One of 
the latter, carefully wrapped and addressed, bore a 
special delivery stamp, which did not fail to attract 
both master and servant’s attention. Mr. Laster 
ordered the blinds thrown open, his tub prepared, 
and his iced tea sent in “ within twenty minutes.” 
Then he sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and mechani- 
cally tore aside the wrapper of the Club News , the 
weekly society journal, so kindly sent him by some 
charitable body. He looked over it listlessly, until 
his eyes met, on the second page, a bold, red pencil- 
mark surrounding three apparently distinct para- 
graphs, which read as follows : 

Mrs. Laster and the Misses Laster left on Saturday afternoon 
by the Etruria for London and the Continent. They are not 
expected back before the fall. The dance announced for the 
25th at the Laster mansion has been countermanded. We 
earnestly hope that the health of this respected leader of our 
most prominent society circle, so suddenly disturbed, may 
be much benefited by this prolonged absence. 

* * * ***** 

Mr. Cortlandt Laster has resumed his bachelor quarters at 
the Union Club. 

******** 

There has been a great demand lately, at Brentano’s, for that 
admirable novel, “ Mensonges,” by Paul Bourget, a translation 
of which would be sure to meet with a big sale in this country. 
We had occasion to review this striking book, which treats of 
one of those entanglements, so peculiarly Parisian, between a 
clever young society woman and a wealthy old gentleman, 


HER RATE IN HER HANDS 


I29 


who “ foots the bills,” and remains on excellent terms with the 
rest of his frot&gee?s family. Such a story is all the more 
readable, since it gives us an insight into manners and morals 
so utterly foreign — Heaven be thanked for it! — to our staid 
New York ways and habits. 

The usual florid complexion of the reader turned 
a greenish white, as he perused these three “ uncon- 
nected ” paragraphs. There was no use disguising 
the situation : the match had been set to the pow- 
der magazine, and, in a few hours, every home and 
club in the select quarter of the Metropolis would 
be swallowing these dainty morsels of scandal, and 
adding to them, as palatable condiments, whatever 
commentaries and additional details might be sug- 
gested by the various tastes of the gourmets . 

As Mr. Laster dropped, in his silent disgust, the 
hated weekly upon his silken coverlet, his hand 
touched accidentally the little pile of letters laid 
upon it, and disturbed its nice equilibrium. One of 
the missives fell upon the floor, and as Mr. Laster 
leaned over to pick it up, he noticed at once the 
monogram and crest of Mrs. Van Cleet upon one of 
those thick blue-gray envelopes she used exclusively. 
Ke could not help tearing it open with a vicious 
wrench, as if to take out in physical violence some 
of the growing ill-humor that was gathering within 
him. The letter was short, and, in its laconism, 
decidedly ominous. It read : 

Wednesday, April — , 2 a. m. 

My Dear Mr. Laster: I should hold it a favbr if you could 
make it a point to call upon me this morning, at your very 
earliest convenience. Yours sincerely, 

Cornelia Van Cleet. 


Cortlandt — 9 


130 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

He looked again at the envelope — it was marked 
collected at an up-town mail-box at five A. M. So 
Mrs. Van Cleet had penned these lines after return- 
ing from the “ Youngsters’ ” Assembly. She said 
not a word of Dr. Van Cleet’s health. The with- 
drawal of the two ladies had therefore been deter- 
mined by some vastly different motive. 

And as Cortlandt Laster’s clear mind ran over 
every circumstance, since the scene at the luncheon 
table, until, and including, the ball-room incident 
and the Club News paragraphs, he reconstituted 
with lightning rapidity, the whole sequence of 
events, and reached, with his old-time shrewdness, 
the veritable state of 'affairs. 

The cause of Madame Laster’s departure was now 
every body’s secret; the source of the Van Cleet’s 
competence was openly discussed ; and, as a pre- 
liminary step, before clearing-up matters, the Ten- 
nessee family had been “ sent to Coventry.” 

With that pleasant conviction now perfectly 
settled, Mr. Laster recovered, Napoleon-like, every 
bit of his self-possession, for it had flashed upon 
him, in less time than is needed to put it down in 
black and white : 

First, that he was a free man, temporarily at 
least ; 

Second, that the Van Cleets, thus absolutely 
tabooed and discarded, were now very truly in his 
hands, for him to mar or make their future comfort, 
at his own sweet will, and under the conditions he 
would be pleased to dictate ; 

And last, but not least by any means, that Van 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS I3I 

Rassel was out of the race, from that day and hour, 
as a candidate to Zelia’s hand. 

Thus, it was, that, undaunted by the apparent 
complication of events, and the threatening cloud 
of a first class scandal darkening the sky above his 
head, Cortiandt Laster, well groomed, clean shaven, 
invigorated by a thorough rubbing and a turn at 
the foils with his friend and teacher Captain Fran- 
cisque, late of the French Spahis, sat down to his 
tea and dry toast, in a far happier mood than many 
a conscientious man with every act of his life an 
example of all the virtues. 

About the same hour, Zelia Van Cleet was waking 
up, in her lovely chamber, in Forty-ninth Street, from 
a feverish, frequently disturbed slumber. As she 
opened her eyes, she perceived, at the foot of the 
bed, her mother, wrapped up in a loose dressing 
gown, and evidently awaiting, with no little impa- 
tience, her daughter’s return to consciousness. The 
two women looked at each other silently for a few 
seconds, a flush of shame and pain slowly flooding 
the girl’s fair face and neck as the remembrance of 
the recent disaster returned, nightmare-like, to her 
memory. 

After a short while though, the mother rose, with 
something of her old determined way about her yet, 
and, first, walking to the windows, she let in a few 
rays of the cheerful spring sun ; then, returning to her 
daughter, she dragged a low stool to the head of the 
bed, and kneeling upon it, she kissed Zelia on the 
cheeks and brow, with unfeigned tenderness. Tears 


132 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

rushed to the girl’s eyes ; but the mother, after this 
rather unusual outburst of caresses, had already re- 
covered, by a mighty effort, her full self-control. 

“ Zelia, darling,” she said in a low but firm voice, 
“ I wanted to have a good talk with you before any 
one elsq had a chance to either speak or write to 
you ; so I have been here, these two hours, waiting 
for your beauty-sleep to come to an end.” 

“ Oh ! beauty-sleep ! Poor beauty ! ” interrupted 
the girl, in hardly audible tones. Her mother went 
on as if she had heard nothing. 

“ My beloved one, when I put you to bed, a few 
hours ago, you were in such a state of exhaustion 
following a period of very natural excitement, that 
I was anxious above all to secure for you some 
much needed repose. Now you are yourself again, 
and strong enough to hear and to judge the sit- 
uation.” 

Zelia lifted her head from the pillow. There were 
dark circles around her eyes, showing clearly that 
the shock had not yet spent its force ; but the lines 
of her mouth had hardened suddenly, as if brooding 
over a terrible affront. Yes, she thought she could 
hear anything; the weak and petted child had be- 
come, under Love’s influence, a girl thrilled by the 
sweetest emotions, and now, Suffering was fast mak- 
ing of her a woman. 

“ I have to plead my own cause, my daughter,” 
continued Mrs. Van Cleet, with a dignity which was 
not without its grandeur, “ and to plead it before 
you as my judge — oh ! do not interrupt me, dear,” 
she said, as the young girl was lifting her hand in a 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 


133 


deprecating gesture; “you cannot show me your 
love better than in letting me reach the end of this 
bitter ordeal, unhindered. I believe that I have a 
strong advocate in your heart, my Zelia, and that it 
speaks to you now of my devouring, restless ambi- 
tion for you, for you alone. Any and every mistake 
I may have committed, and am now about to rue so 
bitterly, has had its source in that absorbing am-' 
bition — I wanted you out of the common crowd, 
out of the rabble — I hated to think of your trudging 
on, as I have done for years, with a few dollars to 
do duty for many, with the spectre of actual pov- 
erty, geateel poverty, the most accursed of all, star- 
ing you in the face for years and years in succession 
— for a whole life-time perhaps. I trained you to 
be a great social success, my Zelia, just as nature 
had endowed you with beauty of face and form. 
I dreaded to risk my treasure in that treacherous 
world, the stage — that soils even the purest of those 
who set foot on it. I looked out with all the ardor 
of a mother’s passion, for a chance to take you out 
of our shabby lodgings, our make-believe gentility, 
this constant necessity for turning,' trimming, mend- 
ing old gowns and bonnets, this wretched existence 
of perpetual make-shifts of all kinds — and one day 
that chance came — ” 

“Yes, I know — ” 

“ No, you do not know, Zelia. You have been 
kept in the dark all along, and if Heaven had but 
answered one-tenth of my passionate prayers, you 
would have been kept in the dark to the end, to the 
happy, glorious end. As I said, I wanted you 


134 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

admired, wealthy, one day the wife of a titled man, a 
real grand seigneur , both noble and fascinating, such 
as one does meet at times, in the old country. But 
for that I wanted money. The Prince nowadays 
does not spend his time hunting up Cinderella at the 
cottage hearth ; she has to come out in the ball-room 
with her sisters, and claim openly her share of the 
feast. Thus, money I needed, money I wanted — 
money came to me.” 

“ Yes, I know.” 

“ You know nothing ; ” the mother's voice grew 
harsher as her confession increased in cruel difficul- 
ties. “ That money came to me ; but there was no 
Lady Fdtz-Hugh to leave it to us in her will ; the 
poor soul had died penniless, months before. And, 
as, according to the world’s silly conventionalities, I 
dared not openly accept from any one but a relative, 
alive or dead, the large sums of money that were to 
bring my own daughter to the pinnacle, I used this 
blind to cover their real origin.” 

This time the speaker stopped of her own accord, 
for there came a wild look in her daughter’s eyes, as 
if her maidenhood had received a death blow, from 
some dread, mysterious agency. Her lips, pale as 
wax, moved as if to utter a name. It came, after a 
heart-breaking struggle : 

“ It was Mr. Laster — and Lancelot knew it ! ” 

And hiding her face in the pillow, the poor child 
began to sob, with the violence of despair. Timely 
tears, though, which perhaps saved her reason, for 
the force of the revelation upon her over-wrought 
nerves was soon broken by the softening effect of 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 1 35 

that long, passionate crying ; and when, at last, she 
had yielded her hand to the poor mother, now thor- 
oughly overcome herself, she had sufficiently recov- 
ered to listen to the final explanations with com- 
parative composure. 

Much was spared the young girl, all through the 
rest of this extraordinary confession. Still, she had 
to be told that the yery house they lived in, their 
horses and turn-outs, their jewels and gowns, the 
wages of their servants, and even their pew at 
church, had all been paid out of Mr. Laster’s gen- 
erous purse. Then the wretched consequences of 
the scene at the Newport luncheon, and the social ver- 
dict striking them like a blow on both cheeks, just 
three days after Mrs. Laster’s sudden departure ; all 
these incidents, so strangely blended together, inter- 
twined, explained the one by the other, had all to be 
laid bare before the young girl ; one thing only being 
left unsaid, as too detestable to be even murmured 
into her virgin ear, and that was Mr. Laster’s silent 
work and settled purpose to conquer the coveted 
prize. 

But Zelia, who now seemed to remember her 
happy girlhood days only as a vague, far-away mist 
that had dissolved under the rays of a scorching 
sun, Zelia, whose soul had risen suddenly to the full 
comprehension of the crudest problems of life, Zelia 
had nothing but that unmentionable mystery before 
her mind’s eye, and with it, she decided, just as her 
mother finished the long recital of their past troubles 
aftd coming hardships, to grapple herself, and at 
once. 


136 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ Mamma,” she said quietly, but with a voice 
the very sound of which seemed to reveal the 
transformation she had been undergoing within 
these few cruel moments ; “ Mamma, I wish to 
see Mr. Laster, to-day, and I wish to see him 
alone.” 

There was so much stern determination in her ac- 
cents, such absolute resolve in every feature of the 
pale face, that Mrs. Van Cleet bowed silently to the 
inevitable, answering: 

“He will be here, sometime this morning. You 
may see him alone, if you like.’' 

And without a word more, she left the room. 

It was hardly more than eleven o’clock, on that 
same day, when Mrs. Van Cleet’s French maid en- 
tered her mistress’s boudoir, where the morning 
meal was being silently partaken of by mother and 
daughter, and announced : 

“ Mr. Laster requests permission to see Madame 
for a few moments.” 

“All right, Mariette,” answered quietly Mrs. Van 
Cleet. “ Say that I shall be down directly.” 

When the servant had withdrawn, Mrs. Van Cleet 
turned toward Zelia, saying : 

“Are you still decided to have a private interview 
with this man ?” 

The young girl was already standing, and moving 
toward the door ; she replied : 

“ I am, mother.” 

“But, have you fully thought over what you are 
to say to him? Remember, acting rashly is not 
going to mend matters in the least.” 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 1 37 

With a cool, determined look that sat strangely 
upon her youthful face, Zelia answered : 

“ My final resolve is taken, mother.” 

The old lady had one more spasm of motherly 
anguish : 

“ Zelia, think of me — of my love for you — ” 

The girl leaned over and gave her a light kiss 
upon the soft gray hair : 

“ Have no fear, dear one ; you are safe in my 
hands.” 

And she noiselessly glided out of the chamber. 

As she entered the large drawing-room, she found 
Cortlandt Laster standing, grave, and hat in hand, 
close to the wide fire-place, wherein sparkled cheer- 
fully a bright wood fire. 

He lifted his eyes, as she approached, much aston- 
ished of course to see before him the daughter, 
instead of the mother ; but more surprised still at 
the extraordinary change so clearly visible in the 
young girl’s expression and demeanor. There 
was nothing dramatic or appealing in her ways, nor 
any outward display of sternness or indignation ; 
only the apparently tranquil, unruffled self-posses- 
sion of an experienced woman of the world about to 
tackle one of the most difficult problems of her 
social existence. 

He bowed with old fashioned courtesy, and as 
he pressed lightly .the small proffered hand, he 
asked : 

“ I hope that you have good news to give me of 
the dear Doctor, Miss Zelia? I was so sorry to 


138 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


hear, last night, that he had been feeling quite in- 
disposed.” 

“ My father's health is not any worse than usual, 
Mr. Laster, thank you. Mother is with him, just 
now.” 

And it happened to be the exact truth. 

Cortlandt Laster, still believing himself upon safe 
ground remarked : 

“ I hope I may see her before I go ? I think she 
wants to speak to me about some business matters 
I attended to for her.” 

There was a short, rather awkward silence. Then 
Zelia resumed, without raising her voice : 

“ I think I know what these business matters are, 
Mr. Laster. They refer doubtless to Lady Mabel 
Fitz-Hugh’s will?” 

Cortlandt Laster looked askance, but being still 
in the dark, he cautiously replied : 

“You are right. They did refer to your late 
cousin's affairs.” 

“ Then, please let us talk the matter over together, 
will you ? ” 

“ What matter, excuse me ? ” 

4 ‘ These money arrangements.” 

“ I fail to understand.” 

“ Then I think I will try and be plainer in my 
inquiries. You have paid in to our account in 
bank — as the proceeds of Lady Fitz-Hugh’s un- 
settled estate, of course, — how much, may I ask? ” 

With a startled look, which he could restrain no 
longer, Mr. Laster answered hesitatingly, as if he 
had not the figures upon his finger tips : 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 


*39 


“From the Fitz-Hugh estate? Let me see — I 
think the total amount, so far, is somewhere between 
fifty-five and sixty thousand dollars. ” 

They were both sitting, just then, on either side 
of the fire-place. Zelia gazed musingly toward the 
blazing logs ; suddenly she turned the full power of 
her enlarged pupils upon the gentleman facing her, 
and said slowly : 

“And how, and when, Mr. Laster, do you expect 
those advances to be paid back to you ? ” 

Cortlandt Laster shifted uneasily on his seat, not 
knowing where in the world all this questioning 
was leading to, and how far the young girl had been 
trusted by her mother. As his answer was not 
forthcoming, Zelia added: 

“ I ask you this, Mr. Laster, because I fear that 
our position in New York is about to undergo a 
great change.” 

“ What ! ” 

“Yes! a great change, indeed. There are very 
singular rumors afloat about your friends, the Van 
Gleets, Mr. Laster.” 

“ Rumors afloat about you ! you astonish me ! ” 

“ And you do not divine what they consist of, 
Mr. Laster?” 

“How could I possibly, my dear Miss Zelia? 
Allow me to say, just here, that it must all be some 
sad misapprehension on your part. Indeed, — ” 

“ And is the sudden departure of Mrs. Laster a 
sad misapprehension on my part ? And the threat- 
ened boycot of mother and myself, which was to have 
manifested itself last night, at the ball, is this also 


140 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

a sad misapprehension on my part ? ” The co*or had 
risen to the young girl’s face, as she thus enumer- 
ated the latest affronts so newly revealed to her. 
Cortlandt Laster bit his lips under the strain of his 
vexation. 

The girl gave him no time to protest. She now 
faced the situation with incredible valiance : 

“ Mr. Laster, I have been told everything — or 
rather I have been allowed to divine that which no 
mother or friend’s lips could ever utter to the face 
of an innocent young girl. It all holds in these 
words : the money we spent was yours! ” 

She now stared unflinchingly into the gray eyes of 
Cortlandt Laster utterly bewildered by the rapid 
succession of those cold, undemonstrative denuncia- 
tions. 

There was a full acknowledgment of every state- 
ment of hers in the silent amazement of the man. 
So, before he had time to collect his wits to answer 
something that would mean something, she con- 
cluded : 

“ We are in your debt, sir. And, as you well 
know, we have no money of our own to reimburse 
you. Being apprised of this, only a few hours ago, 
I thought I should like to see you, just to ask 
you this question : what are you going to do 
with us? ” 

Strange to say, this extraordinary question, pro- 
pounded as it was by the guiltless victim of this 
man’s deep plotting, instead of throwing him into a 
state of humiliated defeat, called back to his defense 
all the resources of his fertile brain. An exultant 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 141 

feeling of power came over him like an ocean-wave 
at the flood-tide, and he could hardly disguise the 
gleam of triumph that he knew must shine through 
his eyes. He rose noiselessly, and, as had been his 
habit for years, he began pacing slowly up and 
down the room, his head bowed in deep meditation. 

Suddenly he stopped in front 'of the young girl, 
and in low, distinct accents, that had an under- 
current of profound emotion, he said : 

“ Zelia Van Cleet, I had dreamed a dream. In 
Paris it was, during that month of daily intercourse 
with you, when the harmless secrets and the enthu- 
siastic hopes of your life were revealed to me. I am 
an old man, you know, old in looks, in years, in 
disillusions, older, perhaps, in my disgust for the 
world’s tricks and meanness. In your radiant youth, 
opening with such innocent ingenuity its wings to 
the breath that has exalted so few and wrecked so 
many, my heart, my whole soul, found a thrilling 
subject for loving interest. It gave me that rare 
sensation of a new spring tide coming over me. 
Your mother I had known years before, and con- 
sidered as a friend of my early days. The three of 
you had to overcome such huge obstacles before 
even seeing the dawn of success ; you were indeed 
so unarmed, so weak, so helpless, and yet so naively 
sanguine, so innocently ambitious, that my whole 
sympathy went to you, and from it was born an 
irresistible yearning to carry you through these 
coming difficulties, to that goal you so passionately 
craved.” 

He ceased speaking, as if oppressed by the 


142 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIS 

remembrance of what had been his impress ons in 
those by-gone days. Soon, he continued : 

“ Thus it came to pass that the dreamer I was on 
that occasion devised a whole scheme of ideal, fairy- 
like transformation of your whole plan of life, a 
scheme to which the blind adoration of your mother 
for you caused her to acquiesce with but little press- 
ing. The deception could harm no one ; material 
assistance was to be forthcoming in the most natu- 
ral, most regular way ; a few months, a year at 
most, was to terminate everything, and place you, 
Zelia, where you belong, by all the unique gifts that 
make you the woman you are — to place you among 
those very, very few who have drawn the Grand 
Prize, in the lottery of life. But it was not all, 
Zelia — ” 

His voice faltered, and he seemed to sum up new 
courage to help him say his say. As if warned in- 
stinctively of what was now coming, the young girl 
felt a painful blush mounting slowly to her brow. 
Still she listened with the intense fixity of an hyp- 
notized subject. 

“ It was not all,” resumed Cortlandt Laster, tak- 
ing a long breath, “ or rather, with those changes 
which came over you gradually,* as every latent 
power in your rich nature was coming to light un- 
der the fostering influence of wider opportunities — 
with those changes in you, Zelia, there began to 
manifest itself a change in me also. That is, 
I saw you with other eyes, thought of you with 
other emotions, and a something I would not 
even confess to myself in the silence of the night, 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS I43 

passed over the spirit of my dream. Zelia, I loved 
you.” 

She started back, as if struck a blow, and the 
crimson blush now covered the fair face and neck. 
He looked up, and with a gesture of utter discour- 
agement, he said : 

“Yes, I see, I understand, — I have known all 
along how it would be — how guilty, no, worse than 
that, how recklessly foolish it all was — how the 
kind, perhaps filial, affection you so openly showed 
me was farther from the infinite passion you inspired 
me with than the North Pole is from the South 
Pole, and still, yes, and still, in spite of all, I loved 
you — I love you, Zelia.” 

He was now leaning against the high marble man- 
tle-piece, and gazing down upon the pale girl with 
a profound melancholy poetizing his still strikingly 
handsome features. Perhaps he hoped for a word 
from her, if only a word of passionate protest, of 
wrathful denunciation. He was hardly prepared for 
this persistent silence and for the lowered eyes, the 
trembling lips, these outward appearances of mute, 
intrepidly borne desolation. They caused him per- 
haps to shorten his pleading, to let the past bury its 
dead, at least for the time being, and to try and 
throw a crumb of comfort over those deeply trou- 
bled waters. There was a great deal of unaffected 
sadness in his voice when he said : 

“ A dream it was from the first, Zelia, and the 
hard realities of life have wiped it off mercilessly. 
The sweets I had foolishly believed I held in store 
for you have been turned into gall. The happy 


144 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

light in your eyes has gone out amid tears of sor- 
row. My task has been done so ill, in spite of the 
passionate intensity I put into it, that I stand now 
before you the personification of senile egotism, 
willing to sacrifice everything, even innocent youth, 
for the satisfaction of its perverse desires. There is 
one thing, though, which I can do for you, yet, 
Zelia; one thing that shall be the undeniable evi- 
dence of my unselfish devotion. You think your' life 
wrecked by that unwarrantable interference of mine 
in the planning of your future ? Suppose, then, that 
I accept the verdict, that with a pang akin to death 
I leave you to shape your own fate alone and sur- 
fender all claims to your affection to some other 
man, waiting perhaps, at this very hour, to be called 
to the rescue of the woman he loves — ” 

She stopped him there, whilst her brow con- 
tracted as if touched by an acute spasm of pain. 
With an instinctive movement of her right hand, 
she seemed to push something away from her, and 
forever. In a low voice, speaking to herself more 
than to him, she said : 

“ I think I understand, but that is gone too, 
crushed with the rest, buried in the same tomb. 
He will never come back to me — ” 

“ What ! ” cried Laster, “ never come back to you, 
the man whom you loved, whom you love yet, 
whose word has been pledged to you ? ” 

“ That was years ago ! ” she answered wearily. 
“ He has learned to know me better since — since 
that night at the Bois ; even this winter, already, 
he used to grow more distant, colder, with every 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS 


MS 


visit he made us. Mother had persuaded me to ask 
him for a few months’ delay before any formal en- 
gagement should exist between us, and little by 
little, he slipped away, courteous and attentive al- 
ways, but not, oh ! not the Lancelot of old. You 
know,” she added, with something like a smile — 
but it was not a pleasant smile — “ he met you here 
quite often.” 

“•Then, Zelia,” said Cortlandt Laster, with a new 
gleam in his eyes ; and he came closer to the young 
girl, speaking now in low but impassioned and 
almost commanding accents ; “ then, Zelia, since the 
man who has known you the unworldly young girl 
you were, in the Rue de Balzac days, can find it in 
his heart to harbor such base suspicions, without 
x even attempting to clear them away before desert- 
ing the woman of his choice ; since Destiny has thus 
narrowed the circle around you, and leaves only us 
two to face this acute crisis and to decide every- 
thing — I come to you with another dream, one I 
have wildly cherished for months, unattainable as it 
has always seemed — but which can be realized to 
the full upon a sign of this little hand. Listen — 
The world is wide, Zelia, and it contains exquisite 
retreats wherein happiness has selected a perpetual 
refuge. Is it Naples, or the Italian Lakes, or the 
Grecian Islands, or the far Eastern shores of Ceylon ? 
It matters little. An eternal spring reigns over 
those enchanted realms, to cheer the' brows and the 
hopes of men. No lovelier places, to let one’s life 
glide away, without even a remembrance of the 
vanished cruelties of Fate. Nature, in its richest 

Cortlandt — 10 


146 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

garb vies with art and music, and the divine poetry 
of the mind and senses, to lull one into an endless 
trance. It is not only forgetfulness they bring to one, 
it is not only a new birth, a new youth, a new knowl- 
edge of all sensations — it is the very essence of all 
human and divine bliss ! ” 

He now took her strangely resistless hand : 

“ Shall we sail for those blessed shores, Zelia ? 
Leaving behind, as the blackest of nightmares, the 
odious regulations of a worthless, so-called civilized 
world ? Dropping with an exultant sigh of relief 
those fetters that wound the wrists and ankles, and 
have been forged by hypocrites and bigots? Shall 
we vanish out of sight, out of reach of the scandal- 
lovers and scandal-mongers, the cowardly calumnia- 
tors and the hateful destroyers of reputations ? 
Away from all that is ugly, despicable, ill-shaped in 
body and mind, dwarfed and monstrified by the 
narrow bands of grotesque habits ; away to the free 
and pure atmosphere of nature’s best beloved re- 
treats, where we shall know how to group around 
us every ingenious resource contrived by man’s 
active brain — An Eden, we can and will make of 
this place of our choice, and infinite happiness shall 
come to us upon the wings of oblivion.” 

She answered him not, and her hand still lay 
within his, passive. Her eyes were so dreamy 
and vague and expressionless that she seemed 
indeed to have entered already the blissful trance 
he had spoken of with such vehemence. He 
thought he divined a tacit acquiescence to his 
extraordinary proffer in this prolonged silence. So 


HER FATE IN HER HANDS I47 

he leaned still more over her, murmuring almost 
inaudibly : 

“ Shall we go, then, darling Zelia, shall we go ? 
Just one word, one, and I am your guide, your 
friend, your companion for life — ” and his lips 
touched the pale brow as they uttered the last 
word. 

Suddenly, with a violent, involuntary movement, 
as if shaking off instinctively the effect of a drug or 
a magnetic spell, Zelia awoke, and stood up before 
Cortlandt Laster, a flow of honest, virgin blood, 
rushing from her heart to her face. Her hand, 
wrenched from his grasp, wiped the trace of his kiss 
with an infuriated gesture, while she said, stepping 
aside, like a queen in her majestic wrath : 

“ I’ll kill myself first, Mr. Laster ! ” 

And without lowering her eyes, blazing with the 
fire of unutterable indignation, she withdrew slowly 
toward the door. One second more, and Cortlandt 
Laster was left master of the battlefield. 


VIII 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 

On the evening of the same day, Cortlandt Las- 
ter and Lancelot Van Rassel met at a stag-dinner 
at the Manhattan Club. At the close of this jolly 
entertainment, the party adjourned to MacGlory’s 
gambling house, where we had occasion to witness 
the first interview between Laster and the young 
Duke dTm£guy. In the afternoon, the following 
exchange of notes had taken place between Mrs. 
Van Cleet and Mr. Laster. The millionaire had 
penned these few lines, and sent them over by mes- 
senger to the Forty-ninth Street house. 

Union Club, ) 

W. Twenty-first St. and Fifth Avenue, > 
New York, — April, 18 — . ) 

My dear Mrs. Van Cleet: I understand that you have a 
few Southern friends to dinner at your house this evening, so 
that I do not suppose you will be at liberty to call at my office 
before midnight. If you could do so then , I think it would be 
truly apropos. 

May I ask you for just one line of answer by bearer? 
addressed to Yours most obediently, 

Cortlandt Laster. 
(i 4 8) 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


149 


The answer came : 

East Forty-ninth St., 

New York, — April, 18 — . 

My dear Mr. Laster: You are right. A meeting is desira- 
ble. By half-past twelve I shall manage to call at your office. 

Very truly yours, 

Cornelia Van Cleet. 

Now a meeting at a business office, at half past 
twelve at night, especially a meeting between a lady 
and a gentleman not connected by family ties, is 
rather an unusual occurrence. In the present case, 
though, it was the simplest and most convenient 
thing in the world. 

The Laster family, whose origin and gradual 
prosperity need not be related here at length, 
rank among the very largest land and house-owners 
in New York City. In fact the sole care of their 
vast real-estate investments is sufficient to keep the 
male* members of the family fairly busy whenever 
they happen to be in town ; and a number of clerks 
are engaged, besides, all the year round, keeping 
track of leases, freeholds, repairs, collecting rents, 
paying taxes ; in a word, attending to the detailed 
management of this enormous wealth. This small 
bevy of employes is located, during business hours, in 
a pretty little house, two stories high, and built in 
the style known as “ English basement/’ The 
lower, or ground floor, is partitioned somewhat like 
a bank office, with a public vestibule, cashier’s win- 
dow, etc. From the further corner of this deep, 
single room, a wooden staircase of quaint design, 
heavily carpeted, and with a graceful wrought-iron 
hand-rail, leads to the second story, entirely devoted 


150 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

to the private rooms, wherein the chiefs of this pow- 
erful family condescend, at times, to inspect the 
work of their faithful stewards, and perhaps to cut, 
in solitary splendor, a million or two worth of cou- 
pons. A very tall and determined looking Irishman 
has been, for ten years, the custodian of these hal- 
lowed precincts, which might be dubbed, not inap- 
propriately “ a chapel to the god Mammon.” 
Among the heirlooms to which each male Laster is 
entitled on coming of age, the tiny pass-key that 
opens the street door of the family office, on East 
50th Street, is certainly the most prized — and 
deserves to be, since it represents, in tangible form, 
the formal investiture of his quasi-sovereignty as 
one of the American money kings. 

But there wSs a peculiarity in the construction of 
this house which was not generally known in the 
Laster Clan ; Cortlandt Laster being in fact, the only 
one cognizant of the rather curious contrivance which 
he had caused himself, and quite mysteriously too, 
to be introduced in the building. In his own private 
room, on the second story, as in each of the three 
other rooms occupied by his co-heirs and co-trustees, 
stood a large steel safe, of the most approved pat- 
tern. His particular safe, fully seven feet in height, 
abutted against the Southern wall of the office, and 
had its back sunk about a foot into the heavy ma- 
sonry of the wall. To this safe, which contained 
the personal papers and private memoranda and 
account books of Cortlandt Laster, this gentleman 
alone had access, and he had always made it a point 
to review its contents out of the presence of either 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


151 

kinsmen or employes. So far, so good. The origi- 
nality of the contrivance lay, however, in the fact 
that the lower half of the safe’s steel back was in it- 
self a door, and could revolve upon its well oiled 
hinges, at the will of its owner. 

When the proper pressure was exerted, an open- 
ing suddenly revealed itself, and the steel door, 
pushed outwards, gave access into a small closet, 
not filled this time with bundles of bonds or tin 
boxes of deeds and mortgages, but with gowns and 
Ihigerie , the undoubted paraphernalia of feminine 
elegance. It would have taken one but a minute to 
understand how, through the safe and the closet, 
Cortlandt Laster’s private office connected with the 
extension of a house on the next street south, that 
is, East Forty-ninth. 

For many years that house, a very comfortable 
mansion, thirty-five feet in width, and fitted up in 
excellent style, like a “ gentleman’s home,” had be- 
longed to the Laster estate. A few years back, it 
had been sold, for a very large price indeed, to a 
foreign nobleman who had settled down there with 
his wife, also of foreign extraction. About the same 
time, the steel safe now in Cortlandt Laster’s posses- 
sion had been built into the wall, and by properly 
bribing the couple of workmen entrusted with the 
work, the millionaire had managed to establish the 
secret communication between the two buildings, 
without the knowledge of it coming out of his own 
keeping. 

On the other side — of the wall, the occupants, 
husband and wife, were never heard to complain of, 


152 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

nor even mention, this somewhat audacious intrusion 
within the sacred precincts of their home. The 
lady was a remarkably good looking woman, and the 
count, a very persistent and very lucky card-player. 
So lucky, in fact, that no one about town was parti- 
cularly astonished — a season or two later — to hear 
of the worthy couple’s having left rather abruptly, 
for pastures new on the Pacific Coast. The name 
of Laster had not, however, been connected with 
either husband or wife, except in the faintest of gos- 
sip. The title deeds of the house in Forty-ninth 
Street soon changed hands again, and passed from 
Count and Countess Fronteray Dinares to Doctor 
and Mrs. Van Cleet, the consideration paid, accord- 
ing to the records, being fifty thousand dollars, forty 
thousand to remain on five per cent, mortgage. 

We hardly need to say from whose coffers the 
purchase money was supplied. 

The reader evidently understands that the busi- 
ness relations established, in the preceding summer, 
betweer^Mrs. Van Cleet and her benevolent adviser 
and financial backer, did necessitate, during the win- 
ter, frequent and confidential interviews. All ap- 
pearance of mystery, or even simply of intimacy, 
in the social intercourse between Zeli^’s mother and 
Mr. Laster having to be strictly avoided, for fear of 
adverse comments, the club man had hit, at once, 
upon this most practical way of facilitating his com- 
munications with the Tennessee lady ; with the back 
thought, evidently, of utilizing, some blissful day in 
the near future, the secret passage between the 
mansion in Forty-ninth Street and his own office, 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


153 


for other and infinitely more attractive visits. So 
far, however, Mercury, the god of monetary trans- 
actions, had not been pushed aside by Venus and 
her naughty progeny, much to the continued disgust 
and disappointment of the elderly roue. Still, he 
had to make the most of the opportunity offered 
him and to continue in his incarnation as the indis- 
pensable friend of “ dear Mrs. Van Cleet,” his 
shrewd and wily co-conspirator. 

And, on that evening, when we left him fumbling 
with the lock of his office-building, after he had re- 
turned from MacGlory’s gambling rooms, leaving 
Lancelot Van Rassel in front of his own home, 
Cortlandt Laster had come to keep the above-men- 
tioned appointment with Mrs. Van Cleet and did 
feel somewhat elated by a totally new and most 
ingenious combination he had just evoked out of 
his fertile brain. 

The door opened, he was met by sturdy Neil 
Mahoney, the custodian of the place, whose special 
duty was never to fall asleep at night. During 
office hours, Neil’s occupation was taken in charge 
by an urbane colored man, who lighted the fires, 
turned on the electric light, and showed the visitors 
to the proper official. 

The night watchman manifested no surprise on 
recognizing one of his masters in the gentleman 
dropping in at such a late hour. Indeed, for years 
past, it had been the habit of Mr. Laster to visit his 
private room rather late in the evening, on his re- 
turn from Club or theatre. He often stated the fact, 
with the utmost nonchalance, simply remarking that 


154 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

whatever work he had to do, on the premises, could 
be achieved in a much shorter time and with better 
results, when attended to in the absolute quiet of 
the night hours and without the constant interrup- 
tions of clerks or callers. He had had a cosy 
lounge installed in the luxuriously fitted room, with 
its thick draperies, its rare etchings on the walls, 
and the thousand and one contrivances provided for 
rendering any office work done therein easier and 
more thorough in every detail. Sometimes, he would 
even doze, an hour or two, before leaving the house 
for his place of residence. In a word, this corner of 
the city he considered a privileged retreat protected 
by strict rules and inconvenient hours from the inva- 
sion of parasites or bores. 

The secret door opened into one of the closets of 
Mrs. Van Cleet’s own room. The combination was 
such as to be absolutely invisible to the eyes of 
maids or valets, especially in the very dim light 
penetrating nooks of that kind. It could only be 
opened from the Laster side, but a signal from the 
wardrobe side announced noiselessly that an appli- 
cant was waiting for admission. As all appoint- 
ments between the two initiated parties were duly 
made in advance, there was no need of such 
notification, for the steel door was always ajar a 
few minutes before the fixed time, whilst, on the 
other hand, Laster had already cautiously pushed the 
tiny bolt of his massive office door, and was thus 
absolutely protected against any possible intrusion. 

That night, just as the Flemish clock in the cor- 
ner marked half past twelve upon its quaint, old 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


155 


fashioned face, Mrs. Van Cleet’s head bowed under 
the low entrance, and that lady herself stepped into 
the cosy office. She was still clad in her even- 
ing gown of heavy white satin, trimmed with rare 
old English lace. A fichu of the same material 
was thrown over her shoulders and hair. Behind 
her, both the doors of the safe rolled back noiseless- 
ly, and the Laster office resumed its regular, every 
day aspect of a well appointed business sanctum. 

She walked rapidly to the master of the place, 
with a peculiar glow upon her cheeks and in her 
eyes ; she dropped, rather than sat, into one of the 
wide Cordova leather armchairs, close to Laster’s 
mahogany desk, he himself resuming his seat in 
front, which he had left deferentially to welcome his 
visitor. She spoke at once, with visible agitation : 
"You have seen Zelia, this morning, Mr. Laster ?” 
“ I have, my dear madam.” 

"And what have you said to her? ” 

" Don't you know that, by this time ? I imagined 
that your daughter never kept anything fr<?m you ? ” 
" And so it was — until the terrible events of the 
last few days. But this cruel succession of disasters 
have transformed the girl in the most amazing 
manner — ” 

" Yes, I know — ” 

" Of course you do, after this morning’s conversa- 
tion. As for me, I have not seen Zelia since it 
took placll.” 

" What ! not seen her ! is she ill ? ” 

" I don’t know whether she is ill or not. She 
sent me word that she would keep to her room all 


156 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

day, adding though, that she only felt a little weary. 
I concluded that I had better leave her to herself for 
a few hours, and see you first ; from what I shall 
hear from you now will depend my line of conduct 
toward Zelia. One thing, you and I know to be a 
fact ; we have not to deal any longer with a child, 
but with a woman, who intends henceforth to shape 
her life herself — one more disaster, and the worst 
of all perhaps, to add to the sad series ! ” 

“ What I said to your daughter, Mrs. Van Cleet, 
and what she answered to me,” replied Cortlandt 
Laster with perfect composure, “ would be of very 
little interest, just now, and for two reasons. First, 
because our interview was, after all, very vague and 
unsatisfactory ; and secondly, because, since then, 
I have hit upon a vety clear, very simple and very 
practical solution, which I beg leave to submit to 
you, now.” 

“ Still, I have to be told how far Zelia has been 
allowed to penetrate our common plans for her wel- 
fare, so wretchedly wrecked. The love of my girl 
for me is in danger of sinking with the rest, if she 
has the faintest doubt concerning my utterly unsel- 
fish devotion. Tell me, at least, that she has not 
accused her mother of — ” 

'‘Your name was hardly mentioned, Mrs. Van Cleet, 
and only with the greatest respect and tenderness. 
Allay your fears in that regard, I beg of you. But, 
for the present, do not let us drift into a sentimen- 
tal strain, but view the whole case in a business- 
like, I might say lawyer-like, manner.” 

“ Well ? ” 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


157 


“ With your permission, I shall first run over the 
immediate facts, and look into their possible, proba- 
ble bearings. First, Mrs. Laster is gone, gone in a 
huff, all on account of the thoughtless babble of 
Miss Zelia, apprising her of our frequent intercourse 
in Paris, intercourse which we had neglected to 
mention to her, for prudential reasons. The dear 
lady has built upon this slender foundation — a very 
awkward blunder we committed there, I acknowl- 
edge — a whole fabric of Machiavelian duplicity on 
my part, and doubtless thinks me now, as she floats 
on the high seas, a very disreputable old rake — ” 

“ Let us pass over this lightly, Mr. Laster, if you 
please.” 

“ I reach immediately the second phase of the 
trouble. The Club News — you read the wicked para- 
graphs of this week’s issue, did you not?” 

“They were sent me by mail this afternoon. In 
fact, there were no less than six copies, addressed 
in various handwritings to Zelia and myself. I 
think I have them all.” 

“ Well, then, you know that they cautiously hint 
at a moneyed arrangement between us. It shows 
that the Fitz-Hugh theory is exploded.” 

“ It seems so, and besides — ” 

“ Besides, I was told this evening, at the Club, 
that Lord Scarborough had yesterday, at the ball, 
told all sorts of things about his old friend, Lady 
Mabel Fitz-Hugh and the penniless state of her ex- 
chequer at the time of her death — which, by the way, 
took place in January, not July, of last year.” 

“You knew this as well as I did, Mr. Laster.” 


158 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

* I 

“ I suppose I did, but that’s neither here nor 
there. I wanted simply to come to this blunt, de- 
cidedly unpalatable conclusion Our original com- 
bination is smashed, and, within a week or two, the 
pieces won’t be worth the picking.” 

Mrs. Van Cleet was not the woman to show her 
emotion or despair by hysterical demonstrations, or 
sobbing explosions. But there was a glare in her 
eyes, and a clinching of her small, pointed teeth, 
that boded no good for those unfortunate parties 
that had taken in hand, so mercilessly, the social 
chastisement of herself and her daughter. But, 
alas ! she felt how vain her thoughts of revenge in 
the presence of so unanimous, and anonymous, a 
verdict. Woman-like, the vials of her wrath were 
broken suddenly upon the head of her unlucky 
accomplice. 

“ So, it is to such a pass, Mr. Laster,” she ex- 
claimed, with withering contempt, “ that your 
imprudent, nay, deceptive promises of last year 
have brought us! You have ruined us without re- 
claim — ” and her voice began to tremble with sup- 
pressed rage. 

“Oh! now, now, my dtar Mrs. Van Cleet,” 
retorted Laster, with a rather hard look in his eyes,” 
“ do not get unduly excited, and unnecessarily un- 
just. Retrospective reproaches have never been 
known to mend matters in the least, and you’ll 
admit that my friendly assistance is still worth 
something to you.” 

He left her time to answer this home thrust if she 
saw fit. And when he had understood her silence 


A SAFE INTERVIEW I $9 

to constitute an almost unconditional surrender, he 
resumed : 

“I'll be bon prince, however, and assume a large 
portion of the blame for the painful situation you 
are now in. You well know that my position also 
is not of the most pleasant, under the circumstances. 
Still, I propose to act, — as I have done so far,” and 
here again he looked at her in a most significant 
manner, “ as I have done so far,” he repeated, “with 
absolute unselfishness. I think that a little clever 
and prudent management could yet bring your hopes, 
my dear friend, almost to their brightest and fullest 
realization — ” 

“Why talk in this way, Mr. Laster?” she inter- 
rupted. “There is something uselessly cruel in 
speaking of hopes to be realized, when we are 
only trying to escape, so to speak, with our bare 
lives.” 

“ I’ll explain myself then. What would you say, 
Mrs. Laster, of Miss Zelia becoming, within a very 
few weeks, a full blown and full coroneted 
Duchess ? ” 

“ I have nothing to say — except that the mere 
thought is preposterous — I do not know even by 
sight, a single marriageable Duke.” 

“But I do know one, a real, live Duke.” 

“ A decrepit, repulsive octogenarian ? ” 

“ A handsome, stately man of thirty-five.” 

“ Ruined to the core — some Italian noble in dis- 
guise in a barber shop or a fruit-stand ? ” 

“ Wealthy, and I repeat it, of the most exalted 
and undisputable rank.” 


l6o CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ And where have you met him ? ” 

“ Here, in New York/’ 

“ And when, if I may ask you? Such dukes, as 
yours appears to be, are seldom in town without be- 
ing hunted .up by reporters, club-men, mothers — ” 

“ My Duke, as you kindly call him, has managed 
to pass quite unnoticed, so far, for reasons of his 
own.” 

“ Then, you mean to say that your proposal has 
really some foundation in fact?” 

“ I mean a great deal more, Mrs. Van Cleet ; and 
by the way, you might have trusted my good taste 
not to evoke such an image before your eyes, if it 
was not both tangible and alive. The fact is, I have 
met the Duke this very night, and I see my way 
clear to have him, within a very short time, a 
suitor to your daughter’s hand.” 

Mrs. Van Cleet had now risen from her chair, in 
unrestrained excitement. The reaction, after the 
utterly despairing emotions she had labored under 
for the last twenty-four hours, without any sleep to 
quiet down her over-wrought nerves, almost upset 
her, in spite of her uncommon energy. Tears 
rushed to her eyes ; but she dashed them away, as if 
angry against herself for such a manifestation of 
weakness. 

“ Tell me more about this thing,” she managed to 
say with a shaking voice. Laster took her hand, 
very courteously indeed, and bringing it gallantly to 
his lips, he said : 

“ Recover yourself, my dear friend, and you shall 
know all. Don’t let an unexpected joy triumph 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


161 


over you, when you have stood so valiantly under 
your grievous troubles.” 

Mrs. Van Cleet heaved a long breath, and gradu- 
ally returned to a quieter demeanor. She resumed 
her seat, whilst Laster said : 

“ I should prefer to enter into details only after I 
have seen Duke d’lmeguy — that’s his name, and one 
of the proudest of Royalist France — after I have 
seen him once more. He is unmarried, much struck 
by the beauty and wit of our American girls, and 
quite inclined to ask one of them to share his title 
and patrimonial estates. He has not been yet in 
society, this side of the water, for a motive known 
to me, but which it is preferable I should not men- 
tion just now.” 

“And you say that he is an attractive man ? ” 

“ None more attractive hereabout.” 

“So that Zelia’s consent might be obtained, on 
his merits, so to speak? ” 

“ I have no doubt it might. Still, your daughter 
ought to be impressed in due time with the extreme 
importance of her acting prudently in the matter. 
Such a resource turning up at so critical a moment, 
ought to be husbanded with the utmost caution. 
You understand ? ” 

“ I do, indeed, and you can leave that to me.” 

“ One thing I may tell you concerning my interview 
with Miss Zelia — or rather two things. She has given 
up all her foolish ideas concerning Van Rassel — ” 

“ This renders matters much easier, already.” 

“And she will not care to see me, for some time 
to come.” 

Cortlandt — n 


1 62 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


“ What ! not care to see you ! What have you 
said to her then ? ” the mother cried out with an 
alarmed accent in her voice. 

“ I think I have spoken to her with the utmost 
consideration and regard for her feelings. Still, as 
I say, I had better keep away from Miss Zelia for a 
month or so. Time will alter matters, as it always 
does. For the present, even in your conversations 
with your daughter, kindly leave me out entirely.” 

“ I will, since you insist upon it,” said Mrs. Van 
Cleet, hesitatingly. 

“And let us have our interviews, concerning the 
great rescuing scheme, away from prying eyes and 
eavesdropping folks ; we shall meet here only, until 
further notice, and at midnight, as usual.” 

“ So be it. But, in your omniscient generalship, 
have you provided for us, during these days of ex- 
pectation, that is, until Prince Charming manifests 
himself in the flesh, and lays his coronet and wide 
acres at Zelia’s feet? You know well enough, that 
during the next few weeks our position in New York 
society is going to be untenable ; what is then to 
become of us ? ” 

Without an instant’s hesitation, Laster replied : 

“ Go into mourning, my dear Mrs. Van Cleet, go 
into mourning, masters, servants, carriages and all. 
That’s the time to bring out some Tennessee relative 
to the rescue.” 

“ We played that game once already, Mr. Laster, 
and we played it once too often, it seems; still — ” 

“ Still it is the easiest and most graceful way out 
of the dilemma, and under the circumstances, even 


A SAFE INTERVIEW 


163 


should the people harbor some doubts about the 
genuineness of your sorrow and the reality of its 
cause, it is better to stand that than a cut direct 
multiplied by four hundred. Besides, by avoiding 
any open affronts in this clever and prompt way, 
you leave your fashionable acquaintances a side 
door to creep back through when they shall want to 
congratulate the Duchess Serge d’lmeguy upon her. 
splendid marriage.” 

“ Good, good!” approved Mrs. Van Cleet, actu- 
ally laughing aloud under the growing influence of 
her returned confidence. “ Mourning it shall be, al- 
though of a mild, becoming sort ! and now, my dear 
friend, I shall await breathlessly the news of the 
progressing conquest.” 

“To-morrow, midnight, the first bulletin!” 

“And a bulletin of Napoleonic victory it will be — 
Isn’t that so, Mr. Laster?” 

“ May heaven hear you ! My task is cut and pre- 
pared ; so is yours, dear Mrs. Van Cleet. And now 
with your kind permission, I think we will ad- 
journ.” 

With a radiant smile and a graceful wave of her 
white hand, the old lady then withdrew into the 
mysteries of the steel safe and the connecting ward- 
robe. Without even the noise of a click, the doors 
closed again, and Mr. Laster gave a couple of turns 
to the outside knob. 

A few minutes later, he was on his way to his 
rooms. 


IX 

A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 

Sitting in front of a half-empty cup of Mocha cof- 
fee, Serge d’lmeguy was toying absent-mindedly 
with a tiny gilt spoon, a dark expression spread 
over his pale, aristocratically-chiseled features. 
Since he had made New York his dwelling-place, the 
Duke usually dropped in, at luncheon time, in the 
Brunswick Hotel Caf£ and ordered his “ French 
breakfast ” to be served him always at the same 
table, overlooking Fifth Avenue. 

It was drizzling and chilly, that afternoon, a very 
different weather indeed, from the pleasant, sum- 
mer-like atmosphere of the night before, when we 
saw him last, side by side with La Juwa wending 
his way toward their rooms. Nor had the particu- 
larly revengeful feeling awakened in his soul by his 
mistress’ thoughtless words, as he briefly related to 
her his losses of the evening, ceased to rankle 
within his breast. After all those years of wander- 
ing and attempted forgetting, it was from the lips 
of that woman that a reminder of his initial and 

(164) 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 165 

irretrievable error was to be thrown back to his 
face. Being given his rather peculiar experience at 
MacGlory’s that night, the chance remark of Ma- 
roussia cut him to the quick, and he was now turn- 
ing in his mind, with a fixed obstinacy that boded 
no good, the arduous problem of how to rid himself 
of the Tzigane dancer and recover once more his 
wrecked freedom. 

Of course the question of money did come up, 
first and foremost, in his thoughts, since he had 
allowed himself, for years back, to depend, for his 
daily subsistence, upon the earnings of La Juwa. 
Just then, all his worldly belongings consisted of 
the four hundred dollars left him out of Laster’s 
timely loan — for he had shrewdly neglected to 
mention the incident to Maroussia, leaving her to 
bear the total loss of the small capital he had ven- 
tured and dissipated in the early part of the evening. 
A few trinkets, and a fairly well supplied wardrobe, 
completed the list of the Duke’s present assets, and 
he did not consider without incipient terror the 
prospect of his being thrown, so slenderly provided, 
upon the world’s mercies. 

Still, the cup of his humiliation seemed now filled 
to the brim, and even his sadly demoralized nature 
could stand its bitterness no longer. There must 
be a change, an immediate change ; of what kind, 
he had not the faintest idea or presentiment ; but 
away from that woman he must, and forever ; the 
very sight of her, that wearying link that bound him 
to his abhorred past, too heavy and loathsome to be 
borne a day, even an hour, longer. To free himself 


1 66 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

from that Nessus’ robe, he felt ready to face that 
dread enemy he had managed so far to keep at arm’s 
length — pale and haggard Want. 

But there was another factor in the case that he 
could not afford to pass over unheeded, and com- 
pared to which poverty was but an insignificant 
drawback. The years had tightened to such a degree 
the bonds uniting Serge and Maroussia as to ren- 
der their breaking asunder well nigh impossible. 
The grateful, romantic attachment of La Juwa for 
her rescuer of the Great Morskaia Street had grown 
and swelled, month after month and in spite of his 
incurable vice, into a wild, savage passion, almost 
akin to that of a tigress for her young. In such 
untutored, half-civilized natures, all loving impulses 
do acquire a degree of boundless intensity that 
throws the milk-and-water flirtations of our fine 
ladies into utter nothingness. Gypsy loVe has 
really all the characteristics of hatred : it is all- 
powerful, exclusive, domineering, and when thwarted 
or despised — deadly. Serge was clear-headed enough 
to understand in what hands his fate had fallen, and 
with what indomitable determination all attempts of 
his to wrench himself away from his mistress would 
be crushed as soon as discovered. 

We know enough of the man’s antecedents to 
understand something of the inherent weakness of 
his nature. The blood that coursed in his veins had 
been so utterly saturated with the corrupt virus of 
centuries past that it had lost, so to speak, all its vital 
energy. A few instincts remained, all pointing to 
an unlimited indulgence in all the fashionable vices, 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 1 67 

and these had taken unrestrained mastery over the 
Duke. Through them, his youth had been ruined, 
his manhood dishonored, his future made worse 
than a blank. But that faint-heartedness that 
caused him to give in to all temptations was not 
absolutely defenceless, since it had supplied him 
with those weapons which are supposed to be ex- 
clusively the apanage of the weaker sex : craftiness 
and ruse. If he never had in his life faced trouble 
and pain with honest intrepidity, he had often man- 
aged to spare himself many worries through the 
cunning expedients conceived, at the right time, by 
his alert Slavonic mind. And just then, as he re- 
viewed within himself the apparently inextricable 
difficulties of his present situation, all the efforts of 
his limited intellect were centred upon those loop- 
holes of escape his consummate and constantly 
sharpened spirit of deceit might supply him with, 
in this hour of pressing necessity. 

He had reached no conclusion though, nor had he 
even perceived the faintest light ahead through his 
sombre preoccupations, when his attention was sud- 
denly brought back to his surroundings, by the 
repeated bowing and joyful exclamations of a man 
whose entrance in the cafe he had failed to notice. 

“What! Sergui Alexandrovitch here, in New 
York! Of all my dear Russian brethren the one I 
least hoped to meet on this benighted shore ! ” 

A single glance had allowed the Duke to recognize 
the speaker. With perfect composure he answered, 
extending his hand to the newcomer: 

“Yes, here I am, Dyonisius Pavlovitch. And 


1 68 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

much pleased to see you. Ha ! ha ! it makes one a 
boy again to meet one’s old tutor after some twelve 
or fifteen years’ separation. And how have you 
been all this time, my reverend sir ? ” 

A distinctly patronizing gesture of the nobleman’s 
hand motioned the man he thus addressed famil- 
iarly, to a seat on the other side of the table. With 
more bows and renewed exclamations of delight, 
the newcomer took the proffered chair. 

He was a stout, rather short, individual, with 
straight hair and flowing beard, high cheek-bones, 
small shifting eyes, and a florid, oily complexion. 
Although dressed in a glossy black suit of Episco- 
palian cut, and holding a shiny silk hat in his hand, 
there was that something about the man that be- 
trayed doubtful cleanliness and ill-disguised knavery. 
And for any one having visited Russia or the Danu- 
bian principalities, or the realms of King George of 
Greece, this reverend gentleman, in spite of his 
modernized attire, was the true brother, in impu- 
dence, manners and filth, of those Priests of the 
orthodox persuasion whose ignorance, greed and 
uncouth habits impress the travelers over eastern 
Europe with such unmitigated disgust. 

Father Dyonisius Photiades — for such was the 
full appellation of the Muscovite Priest, — had how- 
ever one slight superiority over most of the ragged 
representatives of the old Greek church : he had 
managed to acquire, at the Kasan University, a 
smattering of scholarly knowledge that had allowed 
him to enter old Duke d’lmeguy’s house as one of 
the tutors of his son and heir. There, in the big 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 1 69 

mansion near the Anitchkoff bridge, he had ranked 
just a little above the bulky major domo, and far 
below the retired French non-commissioned officer 
whose duties were to acquaint young Sergui Alex- 
androvitch with the beauties of Voltaire’s tongue, 
and the subtleties of the fencing art. His task was' 
restricted to the teaching of pure Russian and mod- 
ern Greek ; the old languages, and the other 
branches of a liberal education being confided to a 
German Doctor of Philosophy, one of the late orna- 
ments of the Tubingen University. But the person- 
ality of Father Dyonisius was connected in Serge’s 
memory with other incidents than those of every- 
day lessons. The wily priest had managed very 
soon to become the confidant of his young Lord’s 
early amorous flights, and he had felt no scruples 
in helping him over the commonplace difficulties of 
his flirtations with ballet-dancers and traktir sing- 
ers . A kind of intimacy had thus sprung up be- 
tween the youth, yet in his teens, and the plausible 
scoundrel who facilitated his escapades. Even after 
he had entered into possession of his full indepen- 
dence, Serge had kept Dyonisius about him, as a 
sort of half-chaplain, half-valet. But some excep- 
tionally barefaced stealing on the part of the fellow 
having been pointed out to his master by some 
other official of the Bolenski palace, he had, one 
day, dispensed, rather brusquely, with the services of 
the reverend gentleman. 

For a time, after this dishonorable discharge, 
Father Dyonisius had known very hard days indeed. 
As a translator of languages, a corrector of proofs, 


I/O CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

a hanger-on about noblemen’s mansions and big 
churches’ vestry-rooms, and more especially as a 
general go-between for spendthrifts, loose women 
and usurers, he had succeeded, for a year or two, in 
eking out a wretched living. One day, however, 
luck had willed that one of his patrons, out of grati- 
tude for a service better left unmentioned, thought 
of him for the situation, just then created, of 

almoner to the Russian Consulate at , in the 

United States of North America ; an office which 
had a pretty close connection with that Third section 
of the foreign Office, especially devoted to the oc- 
cult surveillance of the Czar’s subjects whenever 
out of His Imperial Majesty’s dominions. Off to 
the new world, Father Dyonisius took his flight ; to 
see himself, after a couple of years of systematic 
swindling and blackmailing — cautiously restricted, 
however, to his unfortunate and too confiding fel- 
low-citizens — expelled from the ranks of the tchin 
and deprived of his official salary. But the fellow 
had had time to discover, in the Land of the Free, 
an inexhaustible mine of sentimental religiosity, 
always ready to be fruitfully exploited by any re- 
sourceful and unscrupulous foreigner with a priest’s 
garb on his back ; and he was not long before “ work- 
ing ” this highly respectable weakness in a quiet, 
systematic, and most profitable fashion. 

During his year or two as an officiating chaplain 
to the Consulate, the peculiar ceremonies of the 
orthodox rite, then introduced for the first time to 
the American public, had received many mentions 
in the daily press, and thus attracted the attention 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 171 

of that floating quota of ill-balanced minds, always 
in quest of some new excitement in the spiritual- 
istic, aesthetic or revival line. The small parlors 
wherein the Russian priest held his Sunday services 
were soon too small for the crowd of curiosity-seek- 
ers, many of them but too well disposed to believe 
blindly — until further change — in any and every 
new doctrine cleverly presented to them. When 
Father Dyonisius found himself suddenly and 
deservedly cut adrift from his official functions, he 
immediately posed amidst the group of his New 
York followers and semi-converts, as the victim of 
the Czar’s implacable despotism, and offered to 
organize at once, in the American metropolis, an 
independent community of Orthodox Christians. 
In fact, he managed to have the plan suggested to 
him by a few wealthy enthusiasts — old lawyers with 
fatigued brains, and elderly spinsters athirst for 
Gregorian chants and Asiatic incense. The Greek 
church of Father Dyonisius Photiades grew rapidly 
in importance and patronage. The man’s unsavory 
record remained a closed letter for his over-credulous 
devotees, and he even succeeded in forestalling any 
unpleasant revelations by posing as a virtuous 
priest, pursued, over the sea, by the rancor of eccle- 
siastical enemies — the bitterest of all, as everyone 
knows. Five years had now elapsed, and the Orthodox 
Chapel, a dainty little edifice in a choice location on 
Murray Hill, continued to be the rendezvous of a 
rich and select congregation, who seemed to have 
found in the picturesque ceremonies of the Byzan- 
tine ritual, the religious food no other denomination 


172 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

could supply them with. At the same time, Father 
Dyonisius, prosperous, fat and sleek, carefully 
concealing his petty vices under a cloak of clerical 
decorum, was constantly seen in the best drawing- 
rooms of New York, smiling unctuously over young 
and old, and never missing a glass of punch or 
champagne when the silver trays came his way. 
As a society man, the “pop" as the naughty jeunesse 
doree and the wicked reporters took the habit of 
calling him almost to his face — became perhaps even 
more of a success than as a performer in his sacerdo- 
tal vestments. For the time being at least, he 
found profit and pleasure in his dual role, and 
counted three fourth of New York’s swelldom 
among his speaking — and smiling — acquaintances. 

And so much of all this as he thought prudent to 
reveal, he communicated to his old pupil and patron, 
in answer to the Duke’s good-humored questions. 

Two glasses of green Chartreuse had been called for 
and absorbed, before Father Dyonisius had had occa- 
sion to ask the Duke, in the deeply respectful phrase- 
ology a man of his class is accustomed to use 
when addressing a Boyar of such importance, 
whether his coming to the United States had 
any other motive than a tourist’s idle curiosity. 
When the question was put, however, Serge 
d’lmeguy perceived at once that his quondam chap- 
lain was not acquainted with the great disaster of 
his life, and believed him still one of the social 
powers of the Muscovite Capital. Finding it at 
least unnecessary to mention either his ruin or his 
exile, he answered smilingly : 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD'S GARB 


173 


“ Of course I came here on pleasure bent, Dyonis- 
ius Pavlovitch, nothing else, and mighty little 
pleasure I have met with, so far — ” 

“ Have you been here long, Sergui Alexandro- 
vitch, if I may be allowed to ask ? ” 

“A few weeks only, and not in specially good 
health, most of the time ; so that — ” 

“ You have had no opportunity, so far, to send 
out your letters of introduction ? ” 

The Duke smiled again, and with a well acted 
affectation of frankness, said : 

“ My dear fellow, I came over here on a spree, so 
to speak — incognito .” 

“ Oh ! a,sweet one in the case, I suppose ? ” The 
Reverend’s eyes glistened as if remembering the 
Petersburg days. 

“Well, you are about right, my dear fellow. I 
crossed the ocean to keep track of a pretty little 
friend of mine. But somehow the New World 
seems to disagree with the old flame, and I am 
bored, decidedly bored.” 

The ex-confidant of the young Duke brightened 
up at once, at the mere thought of resuming 
what was, after all, the only part that fitted him 
properly. He straightway offered his services, 
saying : 

“ But, Sergui Alexandrovitch, New York is full of 
lovely girls upon whom your eyes might feast 
themselves to satiety — and the cruel ones would be 
few and far between, I assure you. Besides, may I 
be allowed to ask respectfully if my old pupil is 
married ? ” 


174 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

The Duke looked up, rather surprised at the 
query. 

“ Married ? no,” he answered ; “ never thought of 
marriage, so far.” 

“ Well, I am delighted to hear it — if I may be so 
bold. For New York is just the place for choosing 
a Duchess d’Im£guy — beautiful, witty and wealthy 
— wealthy into the millions of dollars, gold dollars, 
not paper roubles.” 

Serge actually started at the suggestion, so miracu- 
lously appropriate an answer did it seem to his in- 
tense preoccupation of the morning. He preserved, 
though, his pale, impassive mask, whilst he retorted, 
with a half-stifled yawn : 

“ I suppose you know a great deal about those 
gilded beauties, Dyonisius Pavlovitch. But I don’t 
think they would interest me in the least, even if I 
had a chance to meet them.” 

“ Please, please do not speak that way, Sergui 
Alexandrovitch ! ” plaintively exclaimed the priest, 
with a deprecatory gesture of his fat, soft hand. 
4 ‘ Know them first, and then you’ll see how quick 
you’ll change your mind about my dear little Ameri- 
can beauties. If you only allowed me to remove 
your incognito? The invitations would pour upon 
you like hail, and then it would be time for you to 
decide whether you want to stay and woo, or go 
back to the old country, the solitary bachelor you 
are now.” 

The Duke laughed good-humoredly at Dyonisius’ 
enthusiastic insistence, but ceased, for the present, to 
oppose his proposal with the same degree of 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD'S GARB 


175 


firmness. Just then, he happened to look out 
of the window, and whom did he suddenly no- 
tice, walking under a dripping umbrella, in the 
direction of Delmonico’s, but the elderly gentleman 
whose banknotes he held, that very minute, within 
his card-case — Cortlandt Laster himself? 

Doubtless Father Photiades perceived a peculiar 
look in his old pupil’s eyes, for he glanced in the 
same direction, and exclaimed : 

“ I am in luck, Sergui Alexandrovitch ; I was 
speaking of rich New York girls — The man on the 
other side of the street — who is now looking toward 
us and smiling to me,” here the Russian rose and 
made a profound bow in the direction of the mill- 
ionaire’s umbrella, “ has two marriageable daughters, 
and he is rich — rich — richer than our own Demidoff 
before he spent all the gold of his Siberian mines.” 

“ Is that so,” said Serge, in an indifferent tone of 
voice. 

“ And better than that, Sergui Alexandrovitch ; 
I know the man well ; a famous viveur he is, and a 
very generous supporter of struggling congrega- 
tions — two characteristics one finds often united 
hereabouts. If you only say the word, Mr. Cort- 
landt Laster, — that’s his name, — will be deeply 
flattered to be introduced to you — Now, Monsieur 
le Due, shall I do it ? ” 

This time Serge d’lmeguy laughed outright : 

“ Always the same, my poor Dyonisius Pavlovitch,” 
he cried out, as he ordered a couple of new Char- 
treuse glasses to be brought in. “ You are bound 
to help one in all affaires de coeur ; it’s in the blood, 


I 76 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

it seems. Only, in this virtuous land, you act pour 
le bon 7/20/2/ exclusively. I have half a mind to give 
you a chance.” 

“ Oh ! do, now do ! ” begged the older man. 

“ But you’ll have to wait until I am settled some- 
where where I can receive callers. Just now — ” 

“ Oh ! I understand ; your present quarters are 
not — altogether yours. May I perhaps be of use to 
you in that direction also ? ” 

“ No ! no” exclaimed the Duke, thinking of 
Maroussia with an incipient shudder, now that it 
seemed as if he faintly saw his way out of the ac- 
cursed entanglement. “No,” he added smiling: 
“you are out of that line, remember. The people 
over here might not appreciate your mixing your- 
self up with such peculiar affairs. I can attend to 
that myself, anyhow, when the time comes, if it does 
come — ” 

“ But you ought to take a suite of rooms somewhere 
else, also, so as to be your own master again, at 
least for social purposes. And why not here, at 
the Brunswick ? Shall I arrange matters right 
away ? ” And in his eagerness, the Russian priest 
was almost on his way to the hotel office, forgetting 
the tempting glass of cordial set down before him. 

“ Now be quiet,” ordered Serge, with his imperi- 
ous voice of the old days ; “ it is useless to hurry things 
at that rate. I consent to be known officially as 
visiting New York, but I delay until this evening, 
say at about nine or ten, the transfer of my things 
to this Hotel. Until then, keep the matter quiet, if 
you please.” 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 1 77 

“To hear is to obey, Sergui Alexandrovitch,” re- 
plied Father Dyonisius, submissively. 

“ By the way,” asked the Duke, as if reminded of 
some unimportant detail, “ I have lost my valet com- 
ing over; that is, he deserted me as we landed, 
tempted doubtless by the golden promises of some 
local swell. Have you any Russian servant here- 
abouts to recommend to me in his place? ” 

“ I have, Sergui Alexandrovitch, and a right 
good servant too. He speaks English well, and 
knows New York by heart.” 

“ In that case, you had better send him to me, 
to-night, if you can get hold of him between now 
and then. What is his name?” 

“ Fedor Stepanovitch ; I shall see him in an hour.” 
““All right then. Just have him here at ten 
to-night. I shall drive to the Hotel with my traps. 
You may come half an hour ahead, and bespeak a 
suite of rooms for me, and then—” 

“And the rest is my affair, Monsieur le Due. I 
know what I am about, as they say here, and, with 
your most gracious permission, I shall place in your 
arms, within a very few weeks, the prettiest and 
wealthiest bride of the season, or my name is not — ” 
“ That of the cleverest scamp of the White 
Father’s dominions! Never mind the joke, old 
fellow ; a little chaff like this makes us both young 
again ! and what would one not do or say to live 
the dead years over ! I shall give you and your 
American friends a chance at me anyhow — if only 
for the fun of the thing. I felt so bored in this ill- 
kept city before I met you. That’ll be a change, a 

Cortlandt — 12 


17B CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

diversion of some sort. So everything is settled. 
And I say now, au revoir, until to-night.” 

The young man had called for the bill, settled it 
airily, generously tipped the waiter, and waving his 
hand to the priest, almost bent in two in his extrava- 
gant show of respect, he walked out of the room in 
his usual quiet and leisurely way. 

The Duke had hardly left the Brunswick for 
more than ten minutes, when Father Dyonisius 
Photiades emerged upon the sidewalk, in front of 
the Hotel. The rain had not ceased pouring down 
steadily, and it was, if anything, somewhat heavier 
than before. Looking round rather disconsolately, 
his dripping umbrella in his hand, the priest seemed 
undecided as to the direction he was going to take, 
when a voice, close to him, claimed his attention : 

“ May I give you a lift, my reverend sir?” some- 
one was asking him cheerfully. 

He turned around. It was Cortlandt Laster 
again, crossing the pavement toward his coupe, 
standing close to the curb. With a gesture of 
delighted surprise, the Father cried out : 

“ With the greatest gratitude, I accept, my dear 
Mr. Laster ! That’s the kindest proposal I have 
, met with, for many a day.” 

A minute more saw the two men seated side by 
side in the comfortable brougham, upholstered 
in dark green leather, trimmed with ebony wood- 
work. 

“ Where shall I drive you, then ? ” asked Laster 
with a courteous smile, as the coachman was leaning 
over to receive his orders. 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB * 1 79 

“ To the Chapel, my dear sir ; if that’s really not 
asking too much ? I have a meeting of the vestry 
in about an hour from now.” 

“ Corner Thirty-seventh Street and Madison Ave- 
nue,” said Cortlandt Laster to the driver, as he 
closed the carriage door behind him with a sharp 
snap. 

As the coupe rolled over the comparatively 
smooth pavement of Fifth Avenue, Laster turned to 
his guest, and said, with a great show of humorous 
cordiality : 

“ I was just thinking, my dear Father, that you 
have been singularly modest, of late, in your de- 
mands upon your parishioners’ purses. For Mrs. 
Laster is one of your faithful ones, is she not ? ” 

“ I have the honor of counting Mrs. Laster 
among the frequent visitors to my humble little 
church.” 

“And she has not asked me, of late, for any con- 
tribution to your chapel fund. Never mind her 
absence, my dear sir, and if a thousand dollars or so 
are of any use to the good cause, my check-book is 
at your disposal.” 

Chuckling inwardly at this unexpected downpour 
of ducats, the wily Russian set himself at once cogi- 
tating about the probable motive for such sudden 
generosity. Mrs. Laster had indeed shown herself 
somewhat interested in the Orthodox affair ; but, 
of late, for some cause or other, she had cooled down 
very markedly, and her offerings had been reduced to 
a very small amount indeed. Perhaps she had read 
the man through, by this time. He did not “wear 


180 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

well” with the right, honest people, Father Dyon- 
isius. 

The voluble expressions of gratitude of the priest 
were quickly interrupted by Laster, asking him, in 
a sort of perfunctory way : 

“ Did I not notice you, a few moments ago, sit- 
ting near one of the windows in the Brunswick 
cafe ? ” 

‘‘Indeed you did, and you answered my bow 
most kindly.” 

“ I thought it was you. And that tall young man 
you were talking with — it seems to me I have met 
him somewhere in Europe — for he did look like a 
foreigner?” 

“And a foreigner he is, my dear Mr. Laster. The 
bearer of one of the proudest names in Europe. 
Has been here a couple of weeks already, but in 
strict incognito .” 

“ Is that so? Strange, and most unusual. Still, 
you are bound to secrecy, I suppose?” 

“ Not toward you, anyhow, my dear sir. For you 
would not think of betraying a gentleman’s confi- 
dence. My friend, — for I am allowed for many rea- 
sons to call him thus— is the Duke Serge d’lme- 
guy.” 

“ Oh ! a French nobleman ? ” 

“ No, a Russian born. Grandfather, a French 
emigre during the Great Revolution. His mother 
a Princess Bolenska, of Romanoff descent by mor- 
ganatic marriage.” 

“ Quite romantic, isn’t it ? And the young Duke 
is here incognito , and — alone ? ” 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 1 8 1 

“ Well, yes, alone. In fact I can speak more 
freely, since he expects, from to-night on, to let 
people know of his being a visitor this side of the 
big pond.” 

“ So he throws off his mask, does he ? Lives at 
the Brunswick, I suppose ?” 

“ He does. Or rather, he will, after to-night. 
I have his instructions to secure a suite of rooms 
for himself and valet. I am sure that he would feel 
delighted to have the opportunity of renewing his 
acquaintance with you, Mr. Laster, if so it is that 
you two met before.” 

“ We did meet before ; of that I am quite sure. 
But where? That’s more than I could tell you.” 

And so it was, by the way. But the club-man 
had now collected all the information he needed for 
the present, and he artfully drew away from the 
subject, by just adding: 

“ Some day I may ask you to call upon this gen- 
tleman with me. But do tell me, how are things 
going on, up there in your little crib? I have not 
seen you lately in society. Have you turned her- 
mit? Something like those old fellows who used 
to run away in sack-cloth and ashes, and live on 
locusts and wild honey? I don’t see you very well 
in that character — no offense, you know, my dear 
Father.” And Laster laughed rather more noisily 
than was his wont. 

It would have taken a much larger amount of rail- 
lery to offend Serge d’lmeguy’s quondam tutor. A 
salve of one thousand dollars was more than enough 


1 82 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

to heal the wounds from a multitude of sneers. Be- 
sides, the wily priest had detected an unnatural 
sound in both bantering and laughter. Mr. Laster 
was not the man to thus familiarize himself with 
any one, much less with a clergyman of rathei 
doubtful calibre and hardly odorous reputation. 
There was certainly something up ! What could it 
be, and how was it to be turned to account by the 
worthy graduate of Kasan University? All these 
questions, and many subsidiary ones, crossed his 
mind, whilst the two men went on exchanging 
further commonplace remarks. The corner of 
Thirty-seventh Street and Madison Avenue, where- 
upon stood the Orthodox Chapel, a small edifice in 
pure Byzantine style with curious frescoes adorning 
the narrow facade, was now reached, and the door 
of the coup£ thrown open by Laster to allow his 
companion to descend. He lingered though, one 
minute more, before facing the torrents of rain, 
while asking : 

“ May I call upon you at the Club, to-morrow 
afternoon, Mr. Laster?.” 

“ Oh ! for that check? Don’t trouble yourself. 
I’ll mail it to you to-night or to-morrow.” 

“ Excuse me, I did not mean that, my dear sir; 
that would have been really too indiscreet-— I thought 
you might perhaps like me to call for you to go and 
pay Duke d’lmeguy a visit?” 

“ Duke d’lmeguy a visit? Well, well, there’s no 
hurry about that — even if I do call at all, and I 
haven’t decided upon that yet. Some other day will 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 1 83 

do, anyhow. By-and-bye, my reverend sir. Glad to 
have met you.” 

The door closed, and the carriage rolled away. 

Toward ten o’clock that night, Serge d’lmeguy 
walked leisurely to the office desk of the Bruns- 
wick, and entered in a thin, sloping hand writing, 
upon the Hotel register : 

Due de Valois dl I me guy. St. Petersburg , Russie. 

At his elbow stood Father Photiades, and a little fur- 
ther back, already busy with his recently assumed du- 
ties, Fedor Stepanovitch, the valet, was directing the 
porters in the transportation of the young noble- 
man’s traps and things. Profiting by Maroussia’s 
forced absence at the “ Gaiety,” the Duke had 
packed his trunks and piled them on top of a coach 
e?i route for the Brunswick and freedom. He pro- 
posed to see his mistress later on in -the evening, 
and had contrived a clever series of well-graduated 
untruths to explain his abrupt moving. But of that 
anon. 

Pupil and tutor now walked up to the hotel 
elevator, and by its means reached the third story, 
where sitting-room, bed-chamber and bath-closet 
had been secured for the new comer, on the corner 
of Madison Square and the Avenue. With silent 
rapidity, Fedor began unpacking the bags and 
trunks and arranging things in a thoroughly compe- 
tent manner. The Duke looked at him approvingly. 
When the servant moved to the next room, his new 
master said to the priest : 


1 84 CQRTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST * 

“ This seems a well-trained fellow. Can he be 
trusted otherwise ? ” 

“ With untold gold,” exclaimed Father Photiades, 
whose recommendation in matters of honesty 
might perhaps have been taken with a certain 
amount of salt. The remark brought almost a 
smile on the usually impassive face of the Duke, 
who feigned to repress a yawn, however, so as to 
hide the impertinent twist of his lips. Just then, a 
knock came at the door, and a bell-boy walked in, 
carrying a salver with a visiting card upon it. 

“A reporter already,” said Father Dyonisius, 
laughing outright; “ Now I call that cheek! And 
you have not been here half an hour ! What’s this 
for American enterprise?” 

But it was not a reporter’s card. Serge saw the 
name, could hardly avoid wincing, and to conceal 
his unpleasant surprise, turned his back to the 
priest. The older man, with the diplomatic shrewd- 
ness of his race, guessed right away that he might 
be de trop, and seizing his hat, cried out : 

“And now that you are settled, Sergui Alexandro- 
vitch, I have to leave you to fulfill some of those 
dreary social duties one would so gladly forsake for 
an hour’s chat with an old beloved pupil. You’ll 
pardon me, I am sure. I’ll be here to-morrow some 
time in the afternoon. Will that be convenient?” 

Relieved to see the man about to leave, the Duke 
shook him by the hand, and accepted the appointment 
for the morrow with as much cordiality as his dis- 
tant nature cared to display. As the door closed 


A FOX IN SHEPHERD’S GARB 1 85 

behind the priest, he cried to the bell-boy, still 
standing there, salver in hand. 

“Show the gentleman upstairs.” 

In the hall way, Father Dyonisius had suddenly 
resolved to discover whose visit it was, the an- 
nouncement of which had so visibly disturbed his 
quondam patron’s equanimity. The door of an 
empty room, a few feet away from Serge’s apart- 
ment, stood ajar. He pushed it open, and entered 
the unlighted chamber ; from there he could see 
without being seen. His reward was evidently greater 
than he had bargained for in his mind, for hardly 
five minutes had elapsed than he found himself gaz- 
ing in perfect astonishment, upon the familiar face 
and form of Cortlandt Laster, introduced ceremon- 
iously into Duke d’lmeguy’s sitting-room. 

So that’s it? Is it? ” soliloquized, sotto voce , the 
rector of the Orthodox Chapel, as he left his place 
of vantage, and walked toward the elevator. “And 
Laster didn’t care whether he met the Duke or not? 
So he pumped me one thousand dollars’ worth, did 
he? And I am to be left out of all the visiting and 
talking and plotting, I am? Well, I guess not !” 

And with a deep intonation upon the slangy 
expression, or rather its equivalent in the Russian 
language, the venerable ecclesiastic, his sleek face 
wearing a decidedly troubled expression, confided 
his rather corpulent person to the care of the eleva- 
tor boy of the Brunswick Hotel, on his next down- 
ward trip. 


X 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 

The door had closed behind Cortlandt Laster, 
and he stood a moment in the brightly lit sitting 
room, gazing at the man he had come to see. 
Leaning against the mantlepiece, Serge d'lmeguy 
was gravely bowing as his visitor walked toward 
him ; neither extended his hand, but, with a slight 
gesture, the Duke pointed to an easy chair, a few 
feet from the fireplace. Mr. Laster sat down silent- 
ly. He spoke first, and, with the utmost noncha- 
lance, he said, in French : 

“ Baron Braunschweig mentioned your name to 
me, Monsieur le Due , yesterday evening at that curi- 
ous place where I had the honor of meeting you.” 

“ Baron Braunschweig ? ” queried Serge. 

“Yes, the famous diamond merchant, an invet- 
erate faro-player, and a business acquaintance of 
mine, for years.” 

“ And — the Baron knows me ? ” 

“He knows of you, Monsieur le Due; he has often 
had occasion to visit Russia.” 

( 1 86) 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 


i8 7 


Very stately and serenely disdainful, the Duke 
allowed a faint smile to flicker over his face, still 
maintaining an expression of polite surprise at the 
intrusion. He had evidently no desire to connect 
the present call of Mr. Laster with any of the inci- 
dents of the MacGlory evening. The sharp New 
Yorker saw through his game in a twinkling, and 
tacked about with much grace. Putting on an air 
of bland cordiality, he said, stretching out his hand, 
as if actuated by a sudden impulse : 

“ Monsieur le Due , we old-fashioned New Yorkers 
are especially desirous to have the distinguished 
* foreigners who grace our shores with their presence 
feel quite at home among us. Chance willed it that 
a mutual friend of ours suggested that I should call 
upon you, in his company, to proffer to the Duke 
d’lmeguy the freedom of our very primitive metrop- 
olis. I felt that I need not stand upon such extra 
formality, and took the liberty to send up my card 
as a mark of cordial welcome. May I hope not to 
be judged obtrusive?” 

The Duke had taken his visitor's hand within his 
long, bony palm ; giving it a light, very light press- 
ure, he let it drop, whilst he answered, bowing with 
true courtly grace : 

“ There is no need for further apology, Mr. Las- 
ter. The welcome is much prized, I assure you. 
And it so happened that, this very afternoon, an old 
tutor of mine, now a resident of New York, men- 
tioned your name, with the hope that we should 
meet, some early day. The gentleman I mean is a 
Russian priest — ” 


1 88 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ Father Dyonisius Photiades ? ” 

“ Himself. He was here but a few minutes ago. 
I am even surprised that you did not meet him, as 
you came up.” 

“Oh ! but he is just the man I was speaking of, a 
moment ago — a bright and most popular fellow — 
quite the fad, in our parts, just now.” 

Both men smiled ; a very significant smile, if not 
exactly complimentary for the absent “ pop.” 

“And now, Monsieur le Due” resumed Laster, 
heaving a slight sigh of relief, and throwing himself 
back in his chair, “ I wish particularly to know if I 
can be of any material use to you, whilst you so- 
journ among us. I shall put you up at the Club, of 
course, and all that sort of thing. And for any 
matter of importance, social or otherwise, I hope 
you will call upon me freely.” 

It was an unmistakable thrill of delight that ran 
through Serge d’lmeguy’s every vein, and sent a 
warm flush to brighten his naturally pallid cheeks, 
when he heard this man of uncounted wealth and 
unimpeachable standing, pledging thus to him, the 
broken-down adventurer, his social influence, and 
even, to some extent, his bountiful purse. But, at 
thirty, a man — especially a gentlemanly outcast — 
knows by heart this infallible rule of all human 
association, “ Thou shalt have nothing for noth- 
ing ;” and his calculating mind concentrated itself 
suddenly and with all the power it could command, 
upon that sole question : “ What may this man 

want of me ? ” Incapable as he was of any manly 
thought or deed, the young nobleman had upon his 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 1 89 

shoulders a crafty and rather far-seeing head, and 
they would have been much mistaken indeed, those 
who would have counted him a fool. 

Still, if any illusion as to Laster’s real motive in 
thus displaying such effusive good/will toward this 
traveling grandee, had really taken hold of Serge, 
it would have been very positively confirmed by the 
words that followed the dignified thanks addressed 
by him to his self-constituted social Mentor: 

“ I am only sorry, Monsieur le Due , that your 
arrival, this side of the Atlantic, coincides with the 
close of our regular season. Society is about to dis- 
perse ; many of its members to visit fair, lively Eu- 
rope ; others to retire to their villas on the Hudson ; 
Newport claims its contingent ; so do various of our 
watering-places. To my great regret, my Newport 
house is to be closed this summer, on account of 
Mrs. Laster and my two daughters’ recent depart- 
ure for the German spas. Otherwise, I should have 
held it a favor if you had made your headquarters 
with us.” 

Another smile, another bow, from the younger 
man. Laster pursues the even tenor of his speech. 

“You will find your time quickly monopolized, 
Monsieur le Due , by the very charming women we 
count as leaders of our society. If a bachelor — ” 
here he paused slightly, as if expecting some sort of 
an answer to this indirect question. 

“ A bachelor I am,” said Serge d’lmeguy, with 
a light laughter, “and, I fear, an incorrigible one!” 

“Well, as I said, if a bachelor, our younger beau- 
ties will count you among their privileged admirers. 


I90 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

And I assure you that an American girl of the peri- 
od, in all her exuberance, brightness, wit, and I may 
add, beauty, is not an attraction to be passed over 
unnoticed.” 

“ I had the honor to meet, on my side of the 
ocean, several exquisite specimens of American love- 
liness ; and I could not fail to notice how much 
their spontaneous vivacity and clever understanding 
of things and people enhanced their physical 
charms.” 

“ I am delighted to hear you express yourself so 
favorably, Monsieur le Due, making due allowance, 
of course, for the courteous habits of speech char- 
acteristic of your race — as it emboldens me to add 
that you may find among us some very tempting 
occasions to relinquish your right to lonely bache- 
lorhood.” 

The Duke started back, just a little, on hearing 
his inmost hopes thus given voice and form. Quick 
as a flash, the thought struck him afresh that his 
visitor had not come to him without some settled 
purpose in his mind. The remembrance of the Mac- 
Glory incident and of the wretched plight out of 
which he had been helped by that very man, seemed 
like an omen of further relief near at hand, whilst it 
stood also in its intangible form, as an undisputable 
reminder of what his rescuer must think of him. 
Then, who knows? but that Baron Braunschweig, 
so conversant with things Russian, might have 
already enlightened Laster as to his — dTm^guy’s — 
past career. A Jew of that class, mingling on 
account of his business, with wealthy men from all 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 


I 9 I 

parts of Europe, could not fail to be fully posted 
concerning the downfall of a noted society swell. 
What if, at this very minute, this New Yorker, with 
the urbane countenance and the cold, piercing eyes, 
did know of the dreadful past of the man he offered 
to thus introduce and indorse socially ? The mere 
supposition, gratuitous as it seemed under the cir- 
cumstances, chilled the young nobleman to the 
bone. In spite of his inborn depravation, of his 
vagabond existence in the wake of a gypsy dancer, 
of the miserable 'living he managed to eke out of 
the girl’s earnings, Serge d’lmeguy had not been 
able to rid himself of every characteristic of a 
man of gentle blood ; and the sense of shame, 
imperious, overbearing, did yet touch him at 
times, like the black, dreaded wing of the Angel 
of Night. 

We are allowed to surmise that, through the mys- 
terious, magnetic influence which often interferes so 
strangely with men’s intercourse, laying bare, with- 
out word of mouth, the inmost workings of our 
thoughts, Cortlandt Laster divined enough of the 
young Russian’s mental preoccupation to induce 
him to proceed, more boldly than ever, on the road 
he had laid out to himself in advance. A return of 
his bluff cordiality of manner served him here to 
good purpose. As the Duke answered his last 
remark rather listlessly, saying 

“ Marriage, indeed, has its seductions ; especially 
after one has passed one’s thirtieth year, and is 
somewhat satiated with the minor joys of life — But 
then, what a lottery ! and how many conditions 


192 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

must harmonize to secure even a semblance of hap- 
piness ! ” 

“ This is very sensibly said, my dear Duke,” 
answered Taster, dropping the more ceremonious 
fashion of addressing Serge d’lmeguy he had used 
until then. And, as if growing both fatherly and 
confidential, he bent forward and said : 

“•I don’t know by what chain of reasoning I come 
to think of a particular star, whose rays would adorn 
even a Duchess’ coronet — She is beautiful, bright 
- -as all stars are bound to be — quite the belle of 
our waning season in fact, and, if Mrs. Grundy is to 
be trusted, heart and fancy free.” 

“A very attractive picture, I am sure remarked 
the Duke with a polite smile, as if listening to an 
imaginary description. He added, though : “ May 

I hope to be, some day, permitted to contemplate 
her radiance, if only from afar ? ” 

'‘To come down to less ethereal realms, I’ll say 
that this lovely vision of flesh and blood is a pro- 
tegee of Mrs. Laster, and a scion of one of our good 
Southern families. Her debut , this winter, made 
quite a sensation. I happened to have met her, in 
her father’s home, last summer, in Paris.” 

“ Lucky Paris, to have witnessed the first bloom- 
ing of such a flower. But perhaps I also have met 
her there? Did her parents entertain extensively?” 

“ Not that I know of. In fact, I think they were 
in very moderate circumstances, at the time. Since 
then, they have come into a pot of money, I under- 
stand, and have started quite an establishment here, 
in New York.” 


WAYS THAT ARE HARK 1 93 

“ I wonder whether I was introduced to them, on 
the other side ; you said the name was — ? ” 

“ Oh, they are called Dr. and Mrs. Van Cleet ; 
people from our State of Tennessee ; owned large 
estates down there, before our Civil War. Their 
charming, and only, child has created quite a furore , 
both here and abroad, in private theatricals. In 
fact, she thought — or rather her mother thought for 
her — of adopting the stage as a profession. When 
I met her at one of Mrs. Howard de Grey’s garden 
parties, I renewed my old-time acquaintance with 
her parents, and I succeeded, I am happy to say, in 
dissuading them from pursuing their theatrical ven- 
ture. A few weeks later, Fate endorsed my opinion 
of the case by awarding them quite a competence.” 

There was a short silence. Truth was now crys- 
tallizing with surprising rapidity before Serge’s 
fully awakened mental vision. 

“ It was indeed a pleasing coincidence,” he re- 
marked quietly. 

Mr. Laster looked up quickly to try and detect 
the hidden sarcasm. Serge’s mask was impenetrably 
courteous. With a graceful gesture, he pushed a 
silver case, filled with Egyptian cigarettes, toward his 
visitor, saying : 

“ Excuse me, sir, for not proffering these sooner.” 

“ No apology needed, my dear Duke, for I have 
given up smoking the dainty things — I have for- 
sworn cigarettes, and the rest; — ” 

“Really?” queried Serge, with the tiniest smile 
possible lurking about his lips. 

“As you just remarked,” resumed Laster, ignor- 

Cortlandt — 13 


194 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

ing the rather personal interrogation, “ I felt much 
pleased when the Van Cleets were enabled to with- 
draw their daughter from all future association with 
the motley crowd of mummers, and the like. But 
my satisfaction was not without its shadows. For I 
had pledged myself, it seemed, to more than I could 
perform.” 

After the cigarette incident, the avowal could re- 
ceive but one interpretation, one not too flattering 
to Laster’s pretensions as a ladies’ man. But that 
did not seem to trouble him, for he added : 

“ Old Mrs. Van Cleet held my promise to assist 
her strenuously in the most difficult undertaking, 
that of making her daughter Zelia a New York 
society success.” 

“ Didn’t I understand you to say, sir, that such a 
desirable result had been attained during the season 
just elapsed?” 

“ Oh ! but you see, a mother, and especially so 
clear-headed and ambitious a mother as my dear 
friend Mrs. Van Cleet is, cannot be satisfied with 
the mere tribute of admiration paid her beautiful 
offspring; she counts every season that does not 
advance materially — that does not seal, I should 
say — her child’s fate, as a failure; in a word, she 
has been looking round for a suitable husband for 
her daughter, and such a candidate for blisship has 
not materialized, so far.” 

“ Isn’t that most surprising ? What, beauty, you 
said, and wit and talents of many hues, and — and 
money even, since she is the only child of wealthy 
parents — ” 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 


*95 


“ Well, you see, I believe money may just be the 
stumbling-block in the young lady’s matrimonial 
path. I should not be surprised if our young society 
men — a very practical and even mercenary lot, 
they are, nowadays — had not suspected some irreg- 
ularity in that direction. I am bound to admit that 
the source of the Van Cleets’ income is not very 
limpid — I never investigated the matter, of course, 
but, lately, many unkind rumors have been circu- 
lated—” 

“Oh! I suppose feminine jealousy is just as 
cruel, this side of the big pond, as it is among us, in 
the old countries. Your fair young friend — I mean 
Mrs. Laster’s fair young friend — has doubtless too 
many charms and merits to escape the common fate. 
These things die a natural death, however, all the 
world over.” 

“ Excuse me, my dear Duke ; they do and they 
do not. In the case of Miss Van Cleet, the future 
of whom we have been so fortuitously brought to 
discuss in this off-hand way, the situation is getting 
daily more complicated ; and I am sorry to say that 
the worthy matron lays, but too willingly, the larger 
portion of the blame at my door.” 

“Indeed !” 

“You see, I turned her away from her pet proj- 
ect, which, she felt sure, would bring down the 
brightly feathered bird she was craving, that hus- 
band of husbands, endowed with more qualities 
than Prince Charming himself — And now her first 
New York season is gone, and — it threatens, some- 
how, to be her last New York season.” 


196 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ That is really too bad ; I begin to feel quite in- 
terested in the fate of this persecuted beauty,” 
remarked Serge d’lmeguy, with a cleverly acted dis- 
play of well-bred indifference, which deceived his 
visitor not a whit. 

“As the prospects grew darker and darker, as far 
as Mrs. Van Cleet’s motherly ambitions were con- 
cerned,” said Laster, musingly, as if addressing him- 
self in the solitude of his own study, “ I felt the 
weight of my indirect — very indirect — responsibility 
daily increasing. I hate to be thus handicapped by 
unfulfilled duties of my own creating, and, whenever 
I meet them, I look matters in the face with a view 
of solving them, right away, to the best of my abil- 
ities.” 

He stopped a moment as if at a loss how to ex- 
press his way of thinking in a clear, comprehensive, 
and not too compromising manner. Finally he said 
— the Duke gazing at him, absent-mindedly, through 
the bluish smoke of his cigarette : 

“There was but one thing for me to do: to look 
around and discover such a husband for her as her 
mother and the young lady herself would accept — 
not a rescuer in the hour of need, a pis-aller as the 
French call it, but the very prize they hankered 
after. It might be that such a rare bird would have 
pretty high notions as to the financial side of such 
a connection. Well, that I could easily arrange, to 
the satisfaction of all concerned — " 

“ Being an old friend of the family,” threw in 
Serge, opening his lips for the first time in a long 
while, and perhaps at the most opportune moment. 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 1 97 

In fact his remark seemed to clear the ground before 
Laster, who said: 

“ Yes, an old family friend may be allowed the 
privilege of helping along a young couple in whose 
happiness he takes the most lively interest. Of 
course, the world might not necessarily be apprised 
of all the details of such a very legitimate combina- 
tion— 1 ” 

“ The world is apt to interpret things so unjustly,” 
interrupted Serge, with the utmost composure. 

“You are right ; that’s what I meant,” replied 
Laster, looking relieved by his host’s promptness of 
comprehension. “ Now, some of the most desira- 
ble suitors that could be brought forward might 
have perhaps lived for a few years past at a faster 
pace than their revenues warranted. A couple of 
hundred thousand dollars placed at the chosen one’s 
disposal would doubtless do away with that diffi- 
culty.” 

“ So, that’s your price, is it ? ” thought Serge, as 
the fairly large figure was thus negligently thrown 
out by his visitor, in this kind of desultory talk. 

“ Besides, of course,” Laster went on ; “ the 

young people would receive a fixed income from 
the bride’s family, fifty or sixty thousand a year, 
something like that.” 

“ Peste! Trois cent mille francs par an! ” mut- 
tered Serge betweeen his teeth, his pulse beating 
now a regular tattoo of delighted excitement. 

“ Whether the whole amount would come or not 
out of Dr. Van Cleet’s own pocket, is more than I 
could tell just now. But, for the general public, of 


198 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


course, the parents of the bride alone would figure 
as the givers of the dowry. It is all a matter of 
clever arrangement.” 

“ Of course, of course,” approved Serge. 

“ As you see, Monsieur le Due , all seems simple 
and feasible enough if — if the husband we want — I 
mean the Van Cleets want — were only in sight. A 
New Yorker, an American even, is out of the ques- 
tion, for my excellent friend, Mrs. Van Cleet, is de- 
termined to have her darling endowed with a re- 
sounding and bona fide title of nobility. Besides, 
these little awkward stories I mentioned a moment 
ago, would undoubtedly keep out of the race every 
local suitor of any merit.” 

“ So that,” remarked dryly Serge d’Im6guy, “ the 
field is limited to blue-blooded foreigners, and to 
the kind that knows how to be shortsighted at the 
right moment.” 

“ Oh ! ” retorted Laster, “ it is not so bad as that ! 
All that is needed is a man willing to carry off a most 
desirable prize and — keep his own counsel. The 
girl is not kindly spoken of just now by some ultra- 
prudish society women, but she is as truly innocent 
as she is beautiful.” 

“ A very delightful combination of qualities,” 
threw in Serge demurely. 

“And,” continued Laster, “if a husband of the 
right sort were found for her, in a comparatively 
short time, I doubt not that our swells themselves 
would forsake their recently acquired prejudices, 
and worship reverently at the shrine of the newly 
fledged princess — or duchess.” 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 


I 99 


There was a pause ; a rather long one. The 
topic had been broached now as far and as deep 
as could be attempted without boldly breaking 
through the ice. The very terms of a possible bar- 
gain had been given out in a conjectural manner 
which admitted only of one interpretation. Noth- 
ing but the incident at t*he MacGlory roulette table, 
coupled with the short but very precise revelation 
from Baron Braunschweig’s lips, could have ever 
induced Cortlandt Laster to thus beard this young 
adventurer in his den, and offer him, barefacedly, 
this morsel of luscious bait. Should he now leave 
him to draw his own conclusions and later come to 
him, Laster, with a proffer of his humble services ? 
Or, striking the iron while red from the forge-fire, 
should he throw off all disguise and know the fate 
of his proposal before leaving the premises ? The 
thought of Mrs. Van Cleet awaiting him and the 
confirmation of his rash promise, close to the secret 
entrance to his Fiftieth Street office, turned the 
scale in favor of an immediate solution, come what 
might. 

Had he known with what depth of anxiety his 
host was looking forward to the transformation of 
those vague, though thoroughly intelligible, ad- 
vances, into a clear-cut, fully defined bid for his 
hand and title, the older man would have spared 
himself the least hesitation. As it was, he decided 
to speak, and he spoke to the point. 

“ Monsieur le Due , it is a commonplace saying 
that events are shaped not by our own will, but by 
what most people dub chance, or Providence. An 


200 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


absolutely fortuitous meeting was brought about 
between us yesterday evening, and placed us face 
to face, myself perhaps to render you a valuable 
service, to last you your life long, you, Monsieur le 
Due, to assist me chivalrously, in a rescuing mission, 
the outlines of which I have made bold to lay before 
you. Your absolute discretion — ” 

“ Is yours, sir ; I need hardly say so ; ” exclaimed 
Serge, with a display of warm cordiality. 

“ I know it, my dear Duke. I have felt it all 
along. And you have already in your trust the 
proofs of my confidence in your principles as a gen- 
tleman and a man of the world.” 

Serge d’lmeguy bowed low in acknowledgment 
of the courteous words, which admitted, under the 
circumstances, but of one interpretation. 

“ I will now proceed in the same vein — ” 

“ Do not hesitate to do so, Mr. Laster,” inter- 
rupted d’lmeguy, with an earnestness until then 
unnoticeable in his speech. 

'‘You have clearly understood that I attach a 
great importance on finding, and finding at once, a 
suitable husband for my young friend, Zelia Van 
Cleet.” 

“ Zelia ! a most poetical name,” smiled Serge. 

“Miss Van Cleet,” resumed Laster, with some 
impatience, “has been harshly judged by a set of 
priggish old souls who like nothing better than to 
destroy young reputations, especially when their 
possessors are particularly handsome and attractive. 
They have even gone so far as to mix my name, the 
name of her father and mother’s oldest friend, with 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 


201 


the absurd stories circulated concerning her. This 
is quite recent, however, and prompt action can 
squelch this odious rumor in the egg. And here 
the question of a marriage of such a dazzling im- 
portance as to act as an immediate derivative, or 
counter-poison if I may use the word, comes up 
and imposes itself as the sole desirable solution of 
all this trouble/’ 

“ I see, I see,” chimed in Serge. 

“ Now, my dear Duke, I come to you, as to a man 
who has seen life and its many intricacies, and I say : 
Are you willing, provided all the settlements cus- 
tomary in such matters between families of a rank 
equal to your own be satisfactorily forthcoming, to 
trust me implicitly, and to accept a Duchess 
d’lmeguy at my hand ? I add at once, — and before 
your answer comes out of your lips — that my hand 
shall not be seen, or known to act, by any one but 
Miss Van Cleet’s mother and yourself.” 

“ The young lady — ? ” 

“ Shall be made acquainted with you and induced 
to accept your matrimonial offer, through an entirely 
legitimate agency, not my own ; you will be of 
course apprised of all the details of these simple 
proceedings as soon as your decision as to my pro- 
posal itself shall have been communicated to me,” 
and, as he saw no spontaneous acceptance in the 
younger man’s visage or attitude, the speaker rose 
from his chair, with perfect tact and ease, an<£ 
added, stretching his hand toward his hat". 

“ Monsieur le Due , la nuit porte conseil, say the 
French ; on the pillow are the wisest resolves taken, 


202 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


say we. Allow me to leave you to your meditations. 
Should it be that you finally decline to enter further 
into this most desirable intercourse, your silence will 
be considered by me sufficient response, and your 
pledge of discretion I retain. If, on the contrary, 
you feel desirous to pursue this conversation, with a 
view of bringing about the conclusion you know we 
are anxious for, then, kindly let me have a few lines 
from you, say to-morrow morning, at the Union 
Club, simply announcing your arrival in town, and 
fixing an hour for an interview in the afternoon. 
And now, my dear Duke, I wish you a very good 
night/’ 

The two men shook hands, with all the outward 
appearance of mutual esteem, whilst Serge found his 
voice to say : 

“ Mr. Laster, your visit was most welcome, and you 
may depend upon my acting promptly according 
to the indications you kindly gave me just now. 
Good evening.” 

It struck eleven at the hotel office clock, when 
Cortlandt Laster stepped out of the elevator, and 
walked toward the street to enter the brougham 
awaiting him at the curb. Cleverly concealed in one 
of the many nooks and corners of this queerly built 
hostelry, Father Photiades had espied the million- 
aire’s departure, and made his silent comments about 
the length of the interview. Five minutes later, had 
the Russian Priest thought fit to continue any longer 
his detective duties, he would have noticed his old 
pupil, wrapped up in a long English waterproof 
ulster, crossing the Avenue, his perpetual cigarette 


WAYS THAT ARE DARK 203 

between his lips, and walking briskly toward the stage 
entrance of the New York “ Gaiety.” 

For Cortlandt Laster, the game was as good as won, 
and so was old Mrs. Van Cleet notified but a few 
moments later, to her intense and boundless delight. 
For Serge d’lmeguy, exultant as he was, with a hori- 
zon of such unlimited wealth so suddenly stretched 
almost within reach of his spendthrift hand, there 
was still one dreaded obstacle across this road to for- 
tune, perhaps even to partial restoration to his old 
forsaken rights and station, and this obstacle assumed 
the features of the woman who held him now, so to 
speak, in fee simple — the set and passionate face of 
Maroussia la Juwa. 


XI 


PRIEST AND DANCER 

Dyonisius Photiades was not going home though, 
to his cosy little apartment close to the Orthodox 
Chapel dedicated to St. Andrew the Martyr, when 
we saw him strutting, his head bent in deep study, 
out of the Hotel Brunswick. The ex-tutor of the 
Duke d’lmeguy had a warm corner yet in his heart 
for the old habits of the far-off fatherland, especially 
for those habits which find their satisfaction in a 
pot of steaming tea and a glass or two of fiery 
vodka . And nowhere could he better assuage his 
unconquered love for those beverages, with their 
usual accompaniment of lively chatter and salt cu- 
cumbers, than in Katia’s traktir, over there on the 
East Side, in Rivington Street, close to the popular, 
ever-awake Bowery. Thence he now wends his 
steps, quite tickled in advance at the thought of the 
Samovars of polished copper awaiting him with 
their surroundings of appetizing zakouska , smoked 
sturgeon, pickled mushrooms, genuine Volga 
caviar and other delicacies from the land of the 

(204) 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


205 


White Father. There were also some favorite 
chums of his among the motley crowd that congre- 
gated in Katia’s low-ceilinged, smoky and stuffy 
basement, with its ever closed windows and the lit- 
tle compartments opening to the right and left all 
along the rather deep apartment. A quiet game of 
cards would be surely running yet, and the priest 
duly invited to take a hand, if he did not prefer a 
sedate bout at checkers, the national game of all 
Muscovites of his rank and class. 

Through the rain that drizzled and drizzled end- 
lessly, the “ pop ” found his way safely to the 
dimly lighted entrance of the Russian groggery, and, 
pushing the door, was acclaimed with more ironical 
enthusiasm than veneration, by the group standing 
in front of the primitive bar, at the further end of 
the room, where buxom, red-cheeked Katia, a Petite 
Russienne on the wrong side of forty, dispensed 
with characteristic energy, the hospitalities of her 
retreat. The crowd could hardly be called noisy, 
for Russians, always under the shadow of the ever- 
present police, are seldom boisterous in their happiest 
moods ; but the mixture of Muscovites, Poles, Jews 
and Tartars, gave to the assemblage a most curi- 
ous coloring, even in the generally * adopted and 
essentially non-picturesque garb of the American 
laborer or petty tradesman. 

And the first person the priest noticed as he ap- 
proached the hostess to give his order, was that old 
accomplice of his in the half-forgotten days of his 
vagabond and disreputable Petersburg life, Simon 
Ralowitch, the Polish Hebrew, by business a theat- 


206 cortlandt raster, capitalist 

rical manager in a small way, and just then the 
factotum or traveling agent of Maroussia la Juwa. 
With all the effusive marks of mutual recognition 
customary in the country of their origin, the two 
men renewed the long-broken ties of their peculiar 
friendship, and after swallowing at a gulp a couple 
of glasses of vodka apiece, they retired within the 
privacy of one of the side boxes, shining with the 
polish of hundreds of greasy customers, and sat 
down to their pots of tea and a comprehensive chat 
over old things and new. 

It was not long before Simon Ralowitch had ex- 
plained to the priest the nature of his temporary 
exile from the Emperor’s dominions. With becom- 
ing modesty so as to avoid any pecuniary demand 
on the part of the priest whom he had known to be 
very hard pressed for a fifty-kopeck coin, the Jew 
related his wanderings from Petersburg to Berlin, 
Vienna, Frankfort and finally Paris, London and 
New York, as the agent of that “admirable dancer, 
Maroussia la Juwa, the pearl of her race, and the 
unique star of her profession.” 

“That star must have come upon the Petersburg 
horizon after my departure,” remarked Dyonisius; 
“ I don’t appear to remember her name. And is 
the dear child accompanied over here by kith or 
kin, or protector?” 

“No kith or kin of any sort,” replied Simon. 
“As for a protector, it depends on the meaning you 
give to the word — ” 

“What ails you, Simon Abramovitch? You 
know well enough what I mean, you rascal. 


PRIEST AND DANCER 20/ 

Has the infant brought a lover along with 
her? ” 

“ I don’t know but she has, although — ” 

“Although what ? Give it to us, old man — you 
didn’t use to be so squeamish when you peddled 
about those French ballet dancers from the Theater 
Michel — ” 

“ Oh ! that’s not it, Dyonisius Pavlovitch. I sim- 
ply mean that the protection seems to be all the 
other way.” 

“ Ha, ha, — a queer fish then, she holds in her 
net?” 

“That’s what the French would call it, sure — for 
the rubles go mostly into his hands, never to return. 
He is a gambler, I tell you ! ” 

“ What ! you mean that the man gambles away 
the girl’s earnings?” 

“ He does, in right Russian style.” 

“You keep quiet, please. There’s nothing espe- 
cially Russian in that. So the fellow is from the old 
country then ? ” 

“ Of course he is, and you know him too, or rather 
you knew him, and licked his boots copiously, in the 
time we were just talking about.” 

“You don’t mean to say,” exclaimed Dyonisius, 
almost rising from his seat as the revelation rushed 
into his quick-witted brain like a flood of blood. 
“You don’t mean to say that he was baptized 
Sergui — ? ” 

“Alexandrovitch — yes, I do, my reverend sir. No 
one else than your Reverence’s late pupil and pat- 
ron — ” 


208 cortlandt laster, capitalist 

“Then you stop right here/’ cried the priest 
almost fiercely, although in a subdued tone, as he 
placed his open palm upon the Jew’s protruding, 
thick lips. “ Not a word more about him in this 
place.” 

With dumfounded mien, the manager looked up, 
half afraid lest his interlocutor had turned suddenly 
crazy through some unaccountable accident. But 
he only saw in the stern eyes fixed upon him a com- 
mand of immediate and absolute silence. And true 
to his racial . habit, he yielded at once, and turned 
the conversation upon topics of commonplace inter- 
est. An old ragged copy of the Novoe Vremja lay 
on the table, all decorated with spots of various 
nature ; the two men fell to commenting upon the 
antiquated news it contained, and after awhile they 
managed to finish, without undue haste, the boiling 
contents of their pots and to slip out of the place, 
without their conduct attracting the attention of any 
of their ever-suspicious compatriots. As they 
walked along the Bowery toward the up-town 
region, the priest had no trouble extracting from 
Simon Ralowitch a pretty exact and sufficiently 
complete epitome of Serge d’lmeguy’s life and high 
feats since, and including, the terrible English Club 
exposure and the sudden flight that had imme- 
diately followed. The crushing revelation brought 
out no astonished demonstration on Dyonisius’s 
part, neither did Simon, who never bore much love 
to the imperious, disdainful Boyar, spare the Duke’s 
reputation any of the finishing touches his silent, 
but very deep, hatred supplied him with. When 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


209 


the two separated, in the neighborhood of Madison 
Square, Dyonisius Photiades took with him to his 
rooms a decidedly unflattered portrait of his old 
pupil, and besides, a piece of information which was 
to be of immediate value, the present New York 
address of the young man’s companion and devoted 
banker and slave. After exacting from the Jew a 
pledge of mutual discretion the latter willingly 
enough granted, the priest retired to the solitude of 
his manse — a flat of three rooms, six floors above 
the street pavement — to think, contrive and plot, 
with the astute subtlety of a past-master in all such 
subterranean work. 

On the right side of West Fourteenth Street, in 
the neighborhood of Seventh Avenue, the passer-by 
meets with the unmistakable proofs of the existence, 
in this part of the wide thoroughfare, of numerous 
boarding houses, and foreign boarding houses at 
that. Upon the high, broad stoops of what used to 
be, in bygone years, semi-fashionable residences, 
stand lounging, at almost every hour of the day, 
groops of swarthy, talkative and gesticulating 
strangers, very outlandish indeed in their tongue 
and ways. There are a few French people among 
them, but Southern Americans, Spaniards, Italians, 
Hungarians and Levantines, with a sprinkling of 
theatrical people from all parts of Europe, constitute 
the regular clientele of these private hostelries. 
The houses themselves are kept by some of the 
most picturesque creatures one meets in ever-sur- 
prising New York: retired actors, associated with 

Cortlandt — 14 n 


210 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


broken-down seamstresses and aping the Mantalini 
manner with unpremeditated accuracy ; elderly 
females retired without honor from the minor or 
upper grades of the demi-monde ; widows that were 
never married and old maids that were mated too 
often ; once in a great while, a petticoated philoso- 
pher, taking life as it comes and reminding one of 
Beranger’s Lisette grown to seed and with a 
decided mustache decorating her lip and chin. 
Those worthy matrons, and the men they generally 
keep in their train, always display a lively interest 
in their adventurous guests' past and present exist- 
ences, and frequently assist them, with Bohemian 
kindheartedness or Shylock-like foresight, through 
their prolonged struggles for recognition. Every 
household thus represents a sort of family, with its 
likes and dislikes, its quarrels and reconciliations, 
its unceasing gossip, and the excitement of all these 
troubled lives thrown together. In just such a 
place had Herr and Frau Bolensk, that is La Juwa 
and her companion, taken their abode when reach- 
ing New York to fulfill Maroussia’s engagement at 
the “New York Gaiety.” Under this imperfectly 
disguised name of his mother’s people, the Duke was 
in the habit of introducing himself and his mistress, 
whenever they did not set up in their wanderings 
separate establishments ; a garret room, under the 
same roof, had been secured as the constant retreat, 
out of the performing hours, of silent Ossip Step- 
anovitch, the Tzigane tambourine player and invet- 
erate opium smoker. 

The only steady clientele of Mere Valzy’s board- 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


2 1 1 


ing house — for such was the name of the jolly, warm- 
hearted and quick-witted, Toulouse-born French 
woman who ran this particular hostelry — included a 
number of orchestra performers of the Metropolitan 
Opera House, either Italians or Spaniards, a few 
originating from Southern sun-visited Germany. A 
couple of New York journalists in quest of pictur- 
esque surroundings had also taken their abode at Val- 
zy’s, and at the evening meals, always boisterous and 
besmoked toward dessert-time by the burning of cigars 
and cigarettes, they seemed to take mental notes of 
the Babel-like dischords and of the strangely varied 
types that frequented the place. A small, close 
shaven scribe, of Galician descent, a leading con- 
tributor to the famous Police Standard , appeared, 
more than any one else, a persona grata in the eyes 
of the lady of the house. Many a night had he 
spent scribbling his article upon the corner of the 
disarranged table in the basement dining room, or 
chatting with the bright hostess, while she spent her 
only hours of leisure slowly absorbing her glass of 
cold grog, or puffing at a very black Havana cigar. 
Concerning her own past, Mere Valzy, whose frank, 
snapping eyes proved her to be one of the best and 
most impulsive creatures alive, kept invariably silent ; 
but with her favorite guest, she felt no hesitation in 
passing in review her ever-changing population of 
boarders. With unerring accuracy, the old lady 
knew how to read through all disguises, all pre- 
tenses, all boastful exaggerations. It took her but a 
couple of days to “ locate ” — as our western brethren 
say — this one or that one among the newcomers, in 


212 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

the social compartment he or she properly belonged 
to. Thus had she needed neither detective work 
nor outside information to discover what sort of an 
intimacy held together these two tenants of her 
front and back parlor, Herr and Frau Bolensk. 

Of the occupation and stage name of the “ wife,” 
Mere Valzy was of course aware. But her quick 
wit had not needed a second look to discover in 
Herr Bolensk a personality of a very unusual type 
indeed, and such a one as she delighted in fathom- 
ing to the very bottom in her evening chats with 
Karlo Yoshka, her journalistic friend. To no un- 
worthy spying did the good lady have ever recourse 
when thus studying, a la Balzac , the curious charac- 
teristics of any of her guests. She simply proceeded 
by close analysis ; by synthesis, rather, since she 
pieced together the various elements that came suc- 
cessively within the radius of her vision, until she 
finally evoked the real man or woman in place of 
the morally disguised character her roof harbored 
for a time. Yoshka picked up, outside, many frag- 
ments of gossip that helped them both in their 
exciting undertaking. Thus had she been apprised 
of the fact that Maroussia H Juwa had never been 
known to accept, all through her European peregri- 
nations, any other escort than that of Herr Bolensk. 
The latter’s name and the amount of the personal 
means he might possess were not arrived at so 
easily. He was some “ great swell,” sure, but for 
the present at least, the only money in sight was 
that earned by his companion. Over and over 
again had la Juwa herself negligently mentioned her 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


213 


next salary day as the date of a settlement of ac- 
count between the boarding house keeper and her 
parlor-boarders. Once or twice, the bill had been 
running in arrears, to the evident worriment of the 
young woman. Then Herr Bolensk, after bringing 
his “ wife ” home at night, would often leave the 
house again, not returning home until the city had 
resumed its early morning labors. Such irregulari- 
ties could be accounted for in one way only : the 
man gambled, the dancer’s money slipped through 
the ever-itching fingers of an inveterate gambler. 
And now, it had come to pass, that Herr Bolensk 
had called for his trunks, in his companion’s ab- 
sence, and after driving away with them, had re- 
turned the same evening, escorting the dancer as 
usual. An hour later, he had left the house again, 
and had not returned until twenty-four hours more 
had elapsed. Were the two Russians upon the eve 
of a separation ? asked MereY alzy. Where was the 
man now spending his time? queried Karlo Yoshka. 
To both questions, the two friends were bound to 
acknowledge that no answers had so far been forth- 
coming. 

True to the instincts of her haunted race, Marous- 
sia la Juwa had never struck any sort of intimacy 
with the landladies innumerable that had sheltered 
her wandering steps. Although she now managed 
to speak French with sufficient fluency, her inter- 
course with Mire Valzy had not gone beyond the 
merest business communications. The meals were 
sent up to the front parlor, and she really lived as 
much outside of the various interests and gossip 


214 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

that agitated the house as if she had resided in the 
moon. Even the curiosity her advent had in- 
spired at first had slowly dwindled to nothing, ex- 
cept, however, in the psychologically inclined brain 
of her hostess and in the mind of that budding 
novelist in quest of “ documents,” Karlo Yoshka. 
And just as these two heard the street door close, 
and Herr Bolensk enter his companion’s rooms, 
on the night following the sudden removal of this 
gentle^nan’s effects, they were discussing, shortly 
after midnight, a rather singular incident that had 
taken place in the Gypsy’s rooms, on the afternoon 
of that very day. 

For the first time since Herr and Frau Bolensk 
had taken up their residence at Valzy’s, the dancer 
had received a caller, who was neither Simon Ralo- 
witch, her itinerant manager, nor Staffel, the pre- 
siding genius of the “ New York Gaiety.” 

Toward one o’clock, just as the “ second break- 
fast” — as luncheon was dubbed in this house full of 
European inmates — had been finally disposed of, 
Mere Valzy had walked upstairs to answer the door- 
bell, vice the waitress summarily dismissed that 
morning. 

“The hussy was becoming unbearable,” she went 
on, speaking to her confidant ; “ and I punished her 
for one of her impertinent remarks, by expelling 
her on the spot, mann propria . So I puffed my way 
upstairs, and, throwing open the door, I found my- 
self face to face with the most oily-faced, glossily 
dressed, smirking and disgusting individual I have 
met in a long while. Down came his hat, with 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


215 


obsequious politeness, doubtless for the purpose of 
subduing the glare he must have noticed in my eye. 
With an accent I recognized at once to be Russian, 
he said : 

“Is Frau Bolensk at home, madame?” 

“ I don’t know ; I’ll see,” I answered curtly, 
still holding the door so as to prevent his entering 
the hall. With my left hand I knocked at the en- 
trance to the dancer’s apartment. She answered 
the knock herself. I thought she looked more som- 
bre than usual, and you know what a dark and set 
expression her face constantly wears. I had no need 
of notifying her of the stranger’s presence and of 
his purpose, for he managed somehow to slip into 
the hall and addressed the girl in voluble Russian. 
She started back at first, and I was about interfering 
so as to protect her against what seemed an unwar- 
ranted intrusion, when something the man said sud- 
denly brought the ghost of a smile upon her lips. 
With her hand she made a slight gesture of welcome, 
and stepping a’side, admitted the visitor into her 
rooms.” 

“And that’s the last you saw of him?” queried 
Yoshka. 

“ Oh, no, indeed ; the incident was too unusual 
not to deserve more attention ; especially after Herr 
Bolensk’s peculiar conduct of yesterday night. So 
I fussed around the house, with an ear ever pricked 
in the direction of the first floor. I was rewarded 
when, about half an hour later — ” 

“ Quite an interview, it seems,” interrupted the 
journalist. 


2l6 


CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 


“And a momentous one, too, doubtless,” replied 
Mere Valzy, choosing her third cigar of the sitting 
out of a box of Reina perfectos. “For I heard the 
two exchanging a few whispered words in the hall, 
as the man was taking his leave.” 

“And they said?” The curiosity of Yoshka had 
now reached its climax. 

“ Of course I understood not a word of that God- 
forsaken language of theirs. A title only, or some- 
thing that sounded like a title — Now you, who 
speak Russian a little, tell me how they say ‘ Duke ’ 
in the Muscovite lingo?” 

“ That title does not exist over there, except in 
the Imperial family. They would use either the 
German or the French word for it; either herzog 
or due .” 

“ Now I have got it. M. Bolensk is due some- 
thing or other. As the oily-faced man was taking 
leave of the dancer he pronounced the word due 
distinctly, and it struck me like a flash of lightning. 
What did I tell you all along?” 

“ That Herr Bolensk was some great swell incog." 

“ And who made fun of me repeatedly, saying 
that he must be some hair-dresser or ballet-master, 
giving himself airs?” 

“ I did ; and I confess that I see, as yet, no rea- 
son to change my mind.” 

“ Then keep it, my boy, keep it. But to my last 
breath, IT1 swear that the fine fellow, with the extra- 
pale face, the up-turned mustache and the wicked 
gambling instincts is a Russian Duke run away from 
home.” 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


217 


Had the two friends whom we now leave sipping 
their grog and exchanging their conjectures in the 
thickening tobacco smoke of the basement dining 
room, surmised the turn that the interview between 
La Juwa and Father Dyonisius Photiades, her visitor 
of the afternoon, had assumed, they would have re- 
gretted even more than they did having gathered 
about it but a wretched bit of information ; for the 
scene within Mere Valzy’s front parlor had been 
indeed peculiar and interesting. 

It takes a Russian to read a Russian ; and, in 
many respects a Gypsy is but an exaggerated Slav, 
i, e.y the very incarnation of secrecy and duplicity. 
The long centuries of ultra-despotic regime ; the 
boundless power for evil-doing vested for gener- 
ations in those worthless representatives of the 
Czar, the tchinovnicks, that army of office holders of 
high or low degree ; the constant dread of the 
police, and the deep — and justified — conviction that 
every other man or woman belongs to that hated 
body, have finally begotten that psychological 
monstrosity, the Slavonic mind, than which there is 
none more tortuous in its ways, more inimical to the 
searching light of Truth. Queen Hortense of Hol- 
land, the mother of that fatherless miscreant, Napo- 
leon III, did unwittingly picture the Muscovite 
type, when she said of her son : “ Does he speak, he 
lies ; does he keep silent, he plots.” Out of that 
soil sown with deceit, Nihilism has sprouted, that 
hankering of diseased brains and vitiated hearts 
after universal destruction. And it is well known 
that the disciples of this abominable doctrine are 


218 cortlandt laster, capitalist 

principally recruited among the world of petty 
officials — envious crowd of minor clerks — and out of 
the black clergy, the “ popes ” of the orthodox 
Russian Church. We need not add that every vice 
that dishonors the realms of the White Father had 
its worthy representative in the Rector of St. An- 
drew the Martyr, the Reverend Father Dyonisius 
Photiades. 

But if the man was bad to the core, he knew his 
trade full well and practiced it like a dilettante . He 
had come here, with the impudent boldness of his 
kind, to pick up whatever stray weapon he could find 
to help him play his whilom pupil some ugly, back- 
handed trick. To be more explicit, he wanted to 
hold within his grasp the power to make or unmake 
Duke d’lmeguy’s position in the New York society 
he was just about entering with matrimonial inten- 
tions. Not only might the priest draw out of the 
bargain a very neat sum in hard cash, but besides 
and above all, his despicable soul, the soul of a dis- 
missed, thievish lacquey, relished the thought of 
making his imperious master of years gone by, feel 
and acknowledge that he, the scorned social pariah, 
held the whip-hand over him. All he needed to com- 
plete his arsenal — that arsenal that sends out anony- 
mous letters and blackmailing threats — was a con- 
fiding statement from Maroussia la Juwa, complet- 
ing Simon RalowitclTs startling piece of information. 
The knowledge and the proof of Sergui Alexandr,o- 
vitch being a convicted card-sharper and the pro- 
tector in the pay of a public dancer, were indeed 
trumps for Dyonisius to possess in that game he 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


219 


was about entering, with money and revenge as the 
stakes to be won. So the deepest astuteness his 
nature was capable of, and it was of no mean pro- 
portion, was brought forth, on this occasion, to gain 
that control over Maroussia la Juwa, which was to 
secure him the coveted prize. 

He found the girl in just such a frame of mind as 
could best suit his intentions. For the first time, 
perhaps, in those five years of wanderings, La Juwa 
was beginning to feel a vague uneasiness concerning 
the Duke. For the first time, also, she realized with 
what silent frenzy of passion she had grown attached 
to him. In this far-off country where everything 
was so strange, so utterly different, language, habits, 
surroundings, from what she had been accustomed 
to in Eastern, and even Western, Europe, she had 
gradually concentrated every faculty of her mind, 
every longing of her heart upon that lover of hers 
who represented in this New World, so uninterest- 
ing, so repulsive to her, everything in the Old she 
regretted and panted for. For the big Romany 
family she had met everywhere else, seemed here to 
have vanished out of sight ; the strains of the beloved 
music of her people, the guttural sound of their 
voices, she heard them no more. She was indeed 
alone, and, of the broken chain that bound her once 
to the past, Sergui Alexandrovitch was the only link 
left. 

It had been a short phrase in the Gypsy tongue, 
artfully inserted by Dyonisius Photiades, in his few 
words of self-introduction that had brought an 
evanescent smile upon the saddened face of Ma- 


220 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

roussia, and secured him the desired admittance. 
Once within the castle, he had made the best of this 
first advantage and managed to interest the Gypsy 
with Muscovite stories, and with richly colored de- 
scriptions in which many of the names of the Tzi- 
gane virtuosi came up, to her evident delight. In 
her American solitude — it had now lasted over two 
months — this visit had thrown the first ray of sun- 
shine, since it spoke of the country of her early 
youth, of the days of her Petersburg triumphs, of 
that Romany tribe that had been, and was still to 
her, her own ever-remembered people. 

Gradually, with infinite tact and caution, the priest 
introduced the subject that had brought him to that 
house. He spoke of the years of devotion it had 
been his privilege to pass under old Duke d’lmeguy’s 
palatial roof, of the shorter period of his office- 
holding under the present owner of the title. His 
voice assumed such saddened but affectionate in- 
flections when mentioning the name of Sergui Alex- 
androvitch, at the same time insisting so touchingly 
upon the blessing that had come to the Duke in the 
shape of his faithful companion and true friend, Ma- 
roussia, that the Tzigane could not help listening com- 
placently to his adroit praise of her lover and his 
encomiums of herself. She had answered the priest 
most sparingly, so far, and had sat there a silent, 
attentive listener; but a few of his pitying words 
must have touched some hidden chord of sympathy 
within her breast, for she finally burst into a long, 
disconnected, but withal eloquent explanation of 
her continued connection with Serge. It seemed 


PRIEST AND DANCER 


221 


as if the icy reserve once broken, this statue of 
mystery was melting all at once, and proving her- 
self a real woman of flesh and blood and passion. 

“ Yes,” she exclaimed, speaking more to relieve 
her pent-up emotions than for the benefit of her 
visitor ; “ yes, I love him, and every drop of blood 
in my veins is his. And he knows it, too, and has 
given me his life in return, I have never known 
him to look at another woman, since we started 
from Petersburg together five years ago. He is 
welcome to all the pleasure he can get out of card 
playing or roulette betting. That causes me no 
shadow of care. A little less, a little more money, 
I mind not ; I’ll always make enough for both of us. 
Only he must remain my own, my man — ” 

With a sweep of her imperious hand, her eyes 
flashing and her teeth clenched, she now stood 
erect before the priest, the image of the conqueror 
from whom Death alone can wrest his booty. 
There was no irritation in her voice, no nascent 
anguish discernible, simply the absolute determina- 
tion to preserve her own at all risk and forever. 
As quick as a flash Dyonisius had inscribed the fol- 
lowing memorandum upon the tablets of his memory : 

“ Sergui Alexandrovitch had better beware of 
this woman.” 

But he had soon brought her back to a calmer 
attitude and smoothed the darkened brow. For he 
now assured her that he understood too well the 
temperament of his ex-pupil to ever believe him capa- 
ble of being attracted toward another woman. 
Then he added unconcernedly : 


222 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ Besides, he is sure to marry you, some 
day — ” 

“ Marry me — ” she exclaimed with a sort of awe, 
the old-time veneration of the social pariah for the 
man of exalted rank rushing back to her ; “ marry 
me — ” she repeated softly, a dreamy expression 
crossing her dark-complexioned face ; “ could such 
a thing be possible ? ” 

“ And why not, if you please?” cried Photiades, 
warming up to his work surprisingly ; “ has not 
your race furnished over and over again, princesses 
for our first families, and even morganatic spouses 
for the imperial house? Under the circum- 
stances, both his love and his duty must urge the 
Duke to make you his honored wife.” 

She had lowered her head and covered her face 
with her hands; through the slender, brown fingers 
there fell a few tears. The girl did not sob ; it 
seemed as if thoughts of such exquisite joy could 
only be expressed by silent weeping. 

Suddenly she rose, wiped away her tears with a 
brusque gesture that betokened a return of her old 
self, and bowing low before the priest,, said : 

“ We will not speak about Sergui Alexandrovitch 
any longer, Father Dyonisius — not to-day at least. 
Our fate is not for us to make or unmake. Let 
the future weave its own web. Good day ; I shall 
always be happy to see you here.” 

And with a courtesy that was more of a grande 
dame than of a concert-hall dancer, she notified her 
visitor that the interview was at an end. 

He understood ; and walking to the door, opened 


PRIEST AND DANCER 223 

it, bowing his head repeatedly, with the obsequious 
politeness of his race. 

He had reached the hall, and the door of the 
apartment had not yet closed behind him, when he 
turned round and said, in a lowered tone of voice : 

“ May I ask you not to mention my visit, just for 
a day or two, to Sergui Alexandrovitch ? ” 

“ Why this mystery ? ” the girl asked, a look of 
uneasy suspicion hovering over her face. 

“ Oh, simply because I wish to speak to the Duke 
about it first — on account of the marriage — ” he 
added, speaking in whispers, though very distinctly. 

She silently nodded her acceptance, a rich flood 
of blood rushing to her brow and neck, then closed 
the door. 

With a chuckle and a leer that added no charm 
to his uninviting face, Dyonisius Photiades was now 
seen plodding his way in the eastern direction. 


XII 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL” 

“What a charming little box Ruby Levisheim 
has succeeded in putting together,” Erastus Apgar 
was saying to his bosom friend and literary confrere , 
Edwin Fownes, while both stood, gazing from their 
seats in the orchestra, at the crowd invading, with 
proper decorum, every inch of vacant space in the 
petite bonboniere of a hall, opened, but three months 
ago, under the name of “ Murray Hill Theater.” 

And indeed it looked much more like a gigantic 
edition of a candy-box than anything else in the 
world, with its ivory-hued decorations, the peacock 
blue velvet of its seats, the guipure hangings fram- 
ing in its circular row of parterre boxes, and the 
opalescent globes through which the electric lights 
sent forth their softened rays. Neither were the 
seats crowded nor the passage-ways cramped, nor 
the attendants lacking in quiet dignity, nor the visit- 
ors of the night found wanting in that touch of 
notoriety which, in the Eastern metropolis, classes 
a man or woman as being somebody . 


(224) 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL” 22$ 

A short distance from the literary Damon and 
Pythias, sat two warriors brave, with handles to 
their names that brought no smile upon any lips: 
General Sybelt, a veteran West Pointer, with an 
empty sleeve hanging by his side, and Major Averill, 
Editor of the Register, two men of fearless dis- 
position upon, and away from, the field, both with 
one or more excusable homicides upon their other- 
wise untarnished records. Barnard Robinson, the 
City Editor of the Globe , a brainy Kentuckian and 
the social Mentor of the Jew Schnitzer, owner of 
this popular daily, was conversing, three rows be- 
hind, with Edler Von Thann, an Americanized Aus- 
trian of courtly bearing, undoubtedly the brightest 
pen and pencil illustrator of the day. Max Schmidt, 
the musical critic of the Item , and Sam Twinkle, the 
dramatic pontif of the Sybil, were exchanging pre- 
liminary remarks concerning the play, without men- 
tioning, of course^ the promised stipend from the 
manager that had secured in advance their very in- 
dulgent, if not enthusiastic, verdicts. In the other 
aisle, stood, in a group, four men, at various times 
connected with the editing of the Police Standard : 
Pignoufsky, the scribbler and pseudo-artist ; Sol 
Bramble, the king of paragraphists, but kicked out 
repeatedly, for barefaced blackmailing, from every 
decent New York periodical; Karlo Yoshka, cool, 
wide awake and prudent; Stuyvesant Jones, the ris- 
ing young novelist, concealing a wealth of honest 
purpose under his cynical smile and his prematurely 
gray hair. All over the parquet were thus to be 
seen a number of those men, worthy or not, who 

Cortlandt — 15 


226 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

hold in their hands the reputation and good name, 
not only of public personages or stage performers, 
but of every citizen and citizeness of the American 
Metropolis. And as they looked up to the balcony, 
or around the garland of slightly raised boxes, it 
seemed as if their calm, scrutinizing eyes were tak- 
ing a careful survey, almost an inventory, of that 
New York society none of them, perhaps, had ever 
been admitted into, and which they well knew to 
regard them, one and all, with awed and ever increas- 
ing aversion. 

There were hardly any women in the orchestra 
seats, but the front row of the balcony and every 
one of the twenty-four boxes contained their full 
contingent of representatives of the fair sex. The 
proscenium box on the left had been secured 
by Mrs. Arnold Dricks, the buxom, very much 
be-diamonded widow of uncertain age whose mat- 
rimonial adventures had supplied the press, a few 
years ago, with such spicy paragraphs. Next to her, 
that marvel of enamelling and pretended authoress, 
Mrs. Barry Fillmore, and behind, among a crowd 
of nondescript foreigners and second-rate lions, this 
wheedling toady and parasite, Mrs. Arthur O’Lean, 
her scraggy neck protruding boldly out of one of 
her charitable patroness’ discarded gowns. In the 
proscenium box opposite, and in lovely contrast, the 
beautiful Marchesa San Martino, an American writer 
of high calibre and a woman both talented and unas- 
suming, entertained her guest, worthy Mrs. Henry 
Durnwood, the traveler and Wagnerian enthusiast, 
just now conversing with young Kurt Droshler, the 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “MURRAY HILL 0 227 

son, if not the successor, of Hof-Konzert-Meister 
Droshler, of orchestral fame. A box, not far away, 
gave shelter to the only female portrait painter of great 
merit New York ever gave birth to, Lady Francis 
Maltby, the widow of a knighted Mayor of the good 
city of Bristol. She was coquettishly bowing her 
head, unfortunately rouged to excess, toward her 
many journalistic acquaintances scattered through 
the hall, whilst chatting good-humoredly with that 
exquisite talker, free-hand sketcher and playwright, 
Major Burnham, late of the Grenadier Guards. 

Just when silence was beginning to gradually 
establish itself all over the place, in answer to the 
uplifted baton of the orchestra leader, a box, or 
rather, two boxes, thrown into one by the removal 
of a sliding panel, were invaded by a slightly tumul- 
tuous crowd that called upon their heads the indig- 
nant murmurs of the audience. With well-bred con- 
sideration for the public, the new comers, noticing 
that the performance “ was on,” ceased their ani- 
mated conversation, while the ladies in the party 
divested themselves of their wraps and settled down, 
with fans and opera glasses, to take in the coming 
surprises of the evening. 

“ That's the Redfield party,” whispered Erastus 
Apgar to his friend ; “ they gave an early dinner at 
the Hoffman House to-night, and were all to come 
here afterwards. Isn’t that Van Cleet girl charm- 
ing?” 

The full strains of the orchestra covered the voice 
of the famed young author ; a very few minutes 
later the overture came to a close, and the heavy 


228 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

velvet curtains parted majestically, displaying the 
interior of a Spanish Albergo . 

The Redfield party consisted of eight people 
only, every one of them well favored by nature and 
apparently breathing that atmosphere of absolute 
ease and self-control that follows in the footsteps 
of wealthy society favorites. The hostess, tiny 
Mrs. Freddy Redfield, with her snapping black 
eyes, and her type so markedly a la Juive, had the 
direct ways and perfect assurance of a born leader, 
the humblest, perhaps, of her followers being her 
husband himself, tall, chubby-faced Fred Redfield, 
a lawyer with a sufficient inherited income to permit 
him to devote more of his time to the muses than 
to Themis. A young Southern beauty, recently 
married to the well known and elderly Bostonian 
financier, Mr. John Nettleton, who was not to be 
for a very long time satisfied with the risky experi- 
ence ; a New York professional beauty, Miss Bella 
Vane, now in her fifth successive season of so called 
successes, and finally, the leading debutante of the 
season, Zelia Van Cleet, completed the female ele- 
ment of the Redfield party. Among the men, tall, 
stately looking Count de Rieussec, a middle-aged 
French diplomate with a superb grayish beard and 
the closely cropped hair of a knight of old, was con- 
versing in animated whispers with his hostess, glanc- 
ing rather ill-humoredly toward his competitor in 
the little lady’s good graces, small, swarthy, pock- 
marked Senor Domenico Salaveyra, the minister of 
republican Honduras. The compactly built and 
heavily moustached Herbert Wilson, whose ever- 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL ” 229 

lasting high spirits and international popularity no 
other Wall Street man could equal, seemed to de- 
vote his full attention to that jolly girl, Bella Vane, 
slyly smiling, at times, at the fifth and last gen- 
tleman in the party, who had taken, as if by right, 
a seat behind Miss Van Cleet’s chair — none other, 
in fact, than that grave, disdainful looking scion of 
Franco-Russian aristocracy, Duke Serge d’lmeguy 
himself. 

Two weeks had elapsed already, since Cortlandt 
Laster had casually mentioned to his newly made 
acquaintance, Serge de Valois d’lmeguy, in the 
latters rooms at the Brunswick, his desire to intro- 
duce him, with all due honors, to the creme de la 
creme of New York society. The hint, and its 
accompanying enticing pledges had been well 
enough understood by the Russian nobleman, whose 
visitor had soon retired with a clear perception of 
his scheme being on the high road to success. As 
Fate would have it, its practical execution was ren- 
dered especially feasible through an unforeseen 
incident. 

The afternoon following this momentous inter- 
view, Serge having partaken of an excellent de- 
jeuner a la fourchette , brought up to his own sitting 
room, was about exchanging his deshabille for a 
regulation morning costume, preparatory to calling 
upon Mr. Laster, as agreed upon, when his new 
valet brought in a visiting card. 

The Duke picked it up somewhat nervously, for 
he had never been able to rid himself of that 
strangely uneasy feeling that had weighed upon him 


1 


230 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

since that eventful night at the English Club, in 
Petersburg ; but having read it, he smiled good- 
humoredly, and ordered the gentleman to be shown 
up-stairs. 

Five minutes later, a middle-sized, very chubby, 
very red in the face, very bald and very heavily 
moustached person of the male persuasion and of 
undoubted American characteristics, rushed into the 
room, the door of which had been opened for him 
by the servant. He seized both hands of Serge, 
and cried in a loud, hearty voice that filled every 
nook and corner of the apartment : 

“ My dear Duke d’lmeguy ! you here! How 
delightful !” 

And then he sank into the nearest armchair, 
exhausted by the emotion, or the hurry, of his in- 
coming. 

Herbert Wilson, — for such was the visitor’s name 
— represented pretty thoroughly that peculiar type 
of American bon vivant made so much of, upon the 
Parisian asphalt, by the upper demi-monde , the head 
waiters of the swell restaurants and the presidents 
and managers of the so-called strangers’ clubs. He 
could not claim such enthusiastic recognition, how- 
ever, from the more refined sets of his own com- 
patriots abroad, and as for good French society, he 
was as much acquainted with it as with the inside 
arrangements of the Chinese Emperor’s palace. 
Still, having had occasion to meet in the above men- 
tioned clubs — gambling rooms of the most pro- 
nounced color — a number of titled foreigners of dig- 
nified mien and impertinent manners, and his efficient 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL” 23 1 

and pecuniary assistance having not unfrequently 
thrown a bridge over the chasm that separates such 
grandees from a plain American commoner, he had 
soon found himself with quite a list of “friends,” rather 
expensive, perhaps, to keep upon a proper footing 
of intimacy, but all very much be-baroned, be- 
counted and be-duked. He even had, occasionally, 
met with a stray nobleman or so of old and authen- 
tic lineage, amidst the crowd of Bohemians of high 
and low degree who make Paris their battleground 
during their never-ceasing struggle after the evan- 
escent ducats. And among those few titled 'friends 
of Herbert Wilson's, who really were, in name at 
least, what they claimed to be, ranked first and fore- 
most, Due Serge d’lmeguy. 

It had so happened that their mutual acquaintance, 
in the preceding summer, had taken place, and been 
continued for a few weeks, under circumstances 
which had served to place Serge in the fairest light 
in the eyes of the delighted New Yorker. The Duke 
had just been favored with a serious run of luck, 
which allowed him to lead a more luxurious life than 
usual and to appear at his best : quiet, disdainful, 
open-handed, almost oblivious of the value of money. 
With true gambler’s instincts, he had organized his 
life upon the assumption that his continued gains 
were to constitute him a regular income. And just 
in that heyday of momentary resurrection, Wilson 
had been permitted to gravitate around this — to his 
weak eyes — dazzling star of swelldom, and to accom- 
pany him about in the haunts of pleasure. Being 
himself absolutely unacquainted in the bona fide 


232 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

clubs of the great city and frequenting none but 
American chums of his own ilk, outside of the par- 
ticular family of gamblers that had adopted him and 
his pocket-book during this last stay of his in Paris, 
Wilson had no occasion to become enlightened 
concerning the shady antecedents of his very noble 
companion, to whom he bid adieu in the fall, with 
great demonstrations of lasting friendship, and 
repeated invitations to “ come and look me up, in 
New York, won’t you, now, my dear Duke?” 

And that very morning, he had read with his own 
eyes, in the list of arrivals at the leading hotels, the 
name of the great man whose absent personality he 
had often thrust so triumphantly at the faces of his 
doubting and jeering New York friends. 

Herbert Wilson at home was not, however, quite as 
unmitigated a snob as his motley Parisian acquaint- 
ances thought him to be. In his own element, 
among his own people, who, on his mother’s side 
belonged to an excellent Knickerbocker family, he 
lost nothing of his love fora rollicking “ good time,” 
but toned it down to suit his surroundings and the 
thoroughly Anglo-Saxon fondness for pharisaical pre- 
tending. His Wall Street connection amounted 
simply to sundry rather successful “ flyers ” he would 
take at spasmodic intervals. From his late father, a 
contractor and builder and a man of very humble 
beginnings, he had inherited more money than man- 
ners, and withal a shrewd instinct of self-protection. 
But to live with “ great European swells,” to be 
mentioned in the New York Herald cablegrams as 
driving in their company the “ Meteor ” or the 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “MURRAY HILL ” 233 

“ Eclipse '" from Paris to Versailles, or from Cannes 
to Nice, still constituted his pet hobby and, probably, 
absorbed no mean portion of his yearly revenues. 

Under his triumphant leadership, Serge d’lmeguy 
was thus launched upon New York’s social waters. 
A short note from the Duke to Cortlandt Laster 
had apprised the latter of the circumstance that 
removed the necessity of coupling the name of the 
millionaire with the Russian nobleman’s advent in 
society. Later, at the club, they were introduced 
in due form, by the delighted Herbert Wilson, and 
easily found the occasion of completing their ar- 
rangements, without any one suspecting that they 
had ever met each other before. As a wire-puller be- 
hind the scenes, Laster was enabled to direct the 
course of events with infinitely more security and as- 
sured success. Among his own set, his approval of 
Duke d’lmeguy, without being unduly demonstrative, 
was unqualified enough to give the young man an ad- 
ditional standing. Finally, his efficient help was ren- 
dered pleasantly manifest, by the delivery, toward 
the end of that same week, of a sealed package, 
brought by a messenger boy to the Hotel Bruns- 
wick. 

When Serge tore open the envelope, there fell 
out of it five one thousand dollar banknotes. Not 
a line or card accompanied the invoice. Still its 
meaning was clear enough; the earnest money had 
been paid him in hand, and the bargain was closed. 

That same evening, Herbert Wilson and the 
nobleman he was so proud pf showing about town 
as his own personal chum had wended their steps 


234 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

toward the spring exhibition of orchids that made 
Madison Square Garden a miniature reproduction 
of the Eden of old. During the afternoon, the 
young speculator had received a casual hint, from 
whom may be easily guessed, that he ought not to 
limit his introductions to Duke d’lmeguy to his 
boon companions or the members of the swell 
clubs, but present the lion he so jealously kept 
guard over, to some of the belles Am^ricaines of 
uppertendom. Otherwise — the same debonair advis- 
er had thrown in — the wind might be taken out of 
his sails and the privilege made use of by some one 
else. Acting at once upon the suggestion, Herbert 
Wilson, much more preoccupied-looking than was 
his wont, was now surveying inquisitively the glori- 
ously filled boxes. The “grace and beauty” of 
Manhattan were there (to use the vocabulary of 
western society columns) and it was to be Herbert 
Wilson’s delightful prerogative to choose the special 
representative of “rank and fashion” (same vocabu- 
lary) in whose lily-white hands he would intrust his 
precious ward. He had but a few minutes’ hesita- 
tion, though, for in a low, open box, just a few feet 
ahead of him, his eyes met the merry glance of his 
particular society pet — a girl cut to his own heart 
and measure as it were — cherry, buxom, loud-talking 
and loud-laughing Bella Vane. 

Her brother, a nice young man, of the regulation 
dude pattern, served as her escort, and, by her, sat 
another social star of no mean magnitude, Miss 
Zelia Van Cleet. Quiet, dignified Mrs] Van Cleet 
chaperoned the small party. A recent bereavement 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL ” 235 

was made manifest by the subdued tints of her 
gown and that of her daughter. 

“ Mr. Wilson, I want you up here, directly, ” 
cried Bella Vane, as soon as the two friends had 
reached the front of the box ; she evidently pre- 
tended to ignore, for the present, the fact of her 
old friend not being here alone. 

“ My dear Miss Vane,” was Wilson's merry 
answer, “ I don't think I ever refused you anything 
so far, but — allow me to introduce to you my old 
Paris friend, Duke d'lmeguy — Miss Vane.” 

There was an almost imperceptible start on Mrs. 
Van Cleet’s part when the name of the foreigner 
was pronounced. With quickly recovered repose, 
however, she said, addressing her young visitor — 
for the box was her own — : 

“ Bella, we have two seats vacant for Mr. Wilson 
and — ” 

“Oh! Mrs. Van Cleet, how do you do?” ex- 
claimed Herbert delightedly. “ So glad to see you 
here. Miss Van Cleet, your humble servant. Al- 
low me: Duke d’lmeguy, Mrs. Van Cleet, Miss 
Van Cleet. I am sure we shall only be too glad to 
join you, ladies. Shall I show you the way, my 
dear Duke ? ” 

And without waiting for an answer, Herbert 
walked to the nearest stairs, and was soon en- 
sconced, in the company of his Russian friend, 
within the enclosure of the Van Cleet box. While 
he devoted himself almost exclusively to entertain- 
ing the two young ladies with crisp little Parisian 
stories, remodelled so as to suit maidenly ears, the 


236 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

Duke had fallen into an animated chat with his 
hostess, whom his perfect manners and graceful 
bearing seemed to impress most favorably. They 
soon found that they had many mutual acquaint- 
ances in gay, never-to-be-forgotten Paris, and Mrs. 
Van Cleet even managed to interest her daughter, 
whose face bore a grave look, as strange as it was 
recent, in reminiscences of their old life among the 
Franco-American colony. 

Thus had been effected, in the most unpremedi- 
tated, and still conventional, manner, the introduc- 
tion of Serge d’ Imeguy to the young girl Cortlandt 
Laster had shown himself so desirous to have him 
marry. Not an untoward incident had marred the 
plan of campaign so hastily entered into by the 
millionaire, his old friend, Mrs. Van Cleet, and the 
future husband they had both chosen for Zelia. 

The intervention of Laster, even to the insignifi- 
cant detail of a first introduction, had not been 
required, and, in fact, Cortlandt had studiously kept 
away from the Van Cleets during this momentous 
week. Clever manipulation, and a large amount of 
what might be called luck, had permitted things to 
shape themselves without attracting the comments 
of lynx-eyed society, which had now the Van Cleets 
under its special and uncharitable surveillance, and 
without even taking into the new secret that was 
to shape her life, the future wearer of the straw- 
berry-leaved coronet. 

The next afternoon, at tea time, the Duke and the 
inevitable Herbert Wilson called at the doctor’s 
house, by special invitation. Zelia, who felt that 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL ” 237 

she must, by a mighty effort, shake off some of that 
odious weight of care that had so suddenly pressed 
down upon her shoulders, or die, found positive re- 
lief in the diversion just offered her by the advent 
of a foreigner of unexceptional breeding and real 
personal attractions. When Serge dropped in, in 
Mrs. Van Cleet’s opera box, the night following, 
and managed, the day after, to call again at their 
house, under pretense of bringing her some Russian 
music, the young girl was forced to admit, with a mel- 
ancholy shrug, that the Duke was showing her very 
particular attentions. He had of course extended, 
during that week, the circle of his feminine acquaint- 
ances, but never failed to indicate, by the special 
cordiality of his ways toward the Van Cleet ladies 
that he considered them as the most gracious and 
valuable among the patronesses of his short New 
York season. 

Toward the end of that second week, the Red- 
fields, always inordinately fond of titled foreigners, 
had given a dinner and theatre party, in honor of 
“ His Grace the Duke d’lmeguy,” as Mrs. Redfield 
would persist in calling the Russian nobleman, and 
they had thought it quite a clever move to include 
in their choice of guests Zelia Van Cleet, whose 
name was just then beginning to be tentatively 
connected with that of the frequent and much 
talked-of visitor at her fathers house. Boudoirs 
have not, by any means, the monopoly of mar- 
riage-rumors; first-rate clubs are powerful dissemi- 
nators of such gossip; much of it has even been 
known to be manufactured, out of whole cloth, 


23B CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

within their sacro-saint precincts, and thirty years of 
club life had taught Cortlandt Laster the use of 
this docile and redoubtable instrument. 

The new play at the “ Murray Hill ” was not easily 
distinguishable from its predecessors in the realm of 
operettas ; it was very commonplace in its plot, 
vapid and watery in its music, but all that could be 
expected in its interpreters and scenic displays. 
“ Give me Marion Bissel, Willie Francis and a score 
of pretty chorus girls,” Ruby Levisheim was wont 
to say, “ and I don’t care a continental for the 
play and he added those few words that would 
have sufficed to render his memory immortal : 
“ those Parisians have not the least idea of how an 
operetta should be presented. Think of it! they 
prefer a good story well sung, to a whole regiment 
of amazons ! ” 

Thus the patient audience — are not Americans 
the most patient nation on the face of the earth ? — 
had to go through the usual succession of hack- 
neyed situations, repeated up-and-down-marching 
by the scantily clad and badly rouged chorus, nasal 
singing by the be-diamonded prima donna, and vul- 
gar topical couplets by the low comic a la mode. 
There was not a nail, in the whole play, upon which 
to hang a shred of bona fide interest, and the society 
people in the boxes soon left the professional scrib- 
blers in the parquet to fulfill their duties as 
representatives of the public, while they turned, 
metaphorically, their backs to the stage, and began 
chatting together, in subdued tones but to their 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE MURRAY HILL " 239 

hearts' content. And the Redfield party were not 
the last to ' join in this general consensus of polite 
indifference. 

Seated at the end of the box nearest to the 
stage, Zelia and Serge had been allowed to gradually 
withdraw from the merry bantering of their com- 
panions of the evening. Taking full advantage of 
the whispering, not only permitted, but obligatory 
under the circumstances, d’lmeguy soon assumed, 
with the marks of the deepest respect, a tone of 
confidential and almost tender intimacy. Man of 
the world as he was, or rather had been, Serge could 
not fail to notice the poetical side of Zelia Van 
Cleet’s nature, and he had inwardly decided to con- 
centrate his efforts in that direction. He had been 
apprised, of course, of the young girl's absolute 
ignorance concerning his present undertaking, and 
felt that only one road to success was open to him : 
he must reach the promised wealth through the 
conquest of her affectionate regard, if not of her 
love. He well knew that vanity would help on his 
enterprise, for “ a duke is a duke for a’ that," and 
one can easily count the present American Duchesses 
upon the fingers of one’s hand. But a little ideal 
courtship thrown in might go a great way, he thought, 
and it was not such an unpleasant task, either, with 
a graceful and intelligent young bud as a partner. 
So, remembering this old Muscovite proverb, “ Bells 
from over the hills always sound sweet," the Duke 
entered the path opened before him by many 
worthier adventurers, from Othello's time down to 
our days, and spoke, in delicate and moving accents, 


240 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


o£ those lands and people it had been his privilege 
and pleasure to visit. 

The scenery on the stage had offered him a first 
topic of the kind, for it was Spanish, from beginning 
to end, that is, Spanish, as theater decorators and 
costumers understand Spain. It was easy enough 
for Serge to compare, in a few rapid, melancholy 
sentences, the sober beauty and true grandeur of 
the old Peninsula with its grotesque counterfeit 
displayed before their eyes. He said a few words 
of the chivalrous, dignified bearing of the hidalgos 
and of the captivating charm of the senoritas , prais- 
ing their brave devotion to country and king, and 
the enthusiasm and constancy that characterized 
their passionate loves. Strikingly appropriate 
were the tales of sacrifice and fidelity unto death 
he made use of to illustrate those national traits, 
only interrupted from time to time by Zelia’s deeply 
interested questioning. Her glowing cheeks and 
shining eyes bore witness to the absorbing sympa- 
thy he had succeeded in awakening in the roman- 
tically inclined maiden, whose imagination was 
perhaps more developed yet than her heart. Daring 
finally to leave the beaten track of more or less 
truthful recollections, Serge said — still in the veiled 
tone of voice they had adopted from the start : 

“ I have always felt a profound regret not to 
have had my lot thrown among those noble people, 
so simple, so sincere, so near the ideal of human na- 
ture. A Spaniard’s love for the woman of his choice 
is made of such true steel and of such infinite 
tenderness, that it seems to me as if every high- 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL” 24 1 

minded man ought to aspire to equal him, at least 
in this.” 

“ You are right,” the voice of the girl whispered ; 
“ it is only the love that vanquishes all, and that 
knows neither doubting nor weakening, that ought 
to be worthy of the name.” She stopped, and 
blushed scarlet, not, as Serge thought, through em- 
barassment at hearing herself, a girl hardly out of 
her teens, uttering such a bold declaration, but be- 
cause, before her mind’s eye, had risen the image of 
the only man whom she had ever cared for, and 
who, in the hour of crucial test, had wandered away 
from her, mercilessly suspicious. 

With a frank movement of evident sympathy, she 
turned her slightly dimmed look toward d’lmeguy, 
while the Russian nobleman said, in low but singu- 
larly thrilling accents : 

“ How singular it is, Miss Van Cleet, that the two 
total strangers we were to each other, such a short 
time ago, should already meet upon such a common 
ground of full understanding! It is, doubtless, be- 
cause you display none of the artful ways, and the 
graceful little deceits made use of by those charm- 
ing creatures I admire so much — at a distance — the 
society maidens. With you, if I read you aright as 
I honestly think I do, there is no such thing as pre- 
tending, in all matters that touch, far or near, ques- 
tions of true sentiment.” 

She looked up again, her face slightly flushed, but 
this time by a sweet feeling of excited interest. He 
opened his lips to pursue the subject that had proved 
so auspicious, when a voice cried out behind him : 

Cortlandt — 16 


242 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ I declare, if that is not Cortlandt Laster over 
there, in one of the worst seats in the orchestra ! 
He probably dropped in late, and had to take his 
chance. With your permission, Mrs. Redfield, I’ll 
pick him out of the rabble, and bring him here to 
pay his devoirs.” 

It was Herbert Wilson, of course, whose bustling 
awkwardness was now appealing to their hostess to 
exercise her courtesy toward one of the very richest 
men in New York. Instead of giving an immediate 
and enthusiastic reply in the affirmative, the quick- 
witted and tactful little beauty turned toward her 
husband, and looked at him while she said : 

“ I am sure I should be delighted to have Mr. 
Laster join us, but — don’t you think, Fred, that it’s 
really too late now ? The play is almost over, you 
know, and we are due at the Chillingworth dance in 
half an hour.” 

“ We have no business to offer Mr. Laster the 
tail-end of a theater party,” decided Redfield, whose 
opinion was never asked for, and whose authority 
was never exerted, except to help his wife out of a 
dilemma. 

The proposal was not insisted upon by Wilson, 
and a few minutes later, just before the curtain went 
down for the fourth and last time, the whole party 
was following the example of most of their neigh- 
bors in the boxes, and preparing to withdraw. 

While the Duke was helping Zelia Van Cleet with 
her wraps, he could not help noticing the slight, nerv- 
ous shudder which she seemed unable to control. 
When Laster’s name had been thus brusquely men- 


A FIRST NIGHT AT THE “ MURRAY HILL” 243 

tioned so close to them, they had both instinctively 
ceased their conversation, and listened to Wilson’s 
suggestion and the Redfields’ answers. By a feel- 
ing he could not have explained to himself, Serge 
had refrained from gazing at the girl, or resuming 
their interrupted dialogue. Turning unaffectedly 
toward the other members of the party, he had be- 
stowed the last moments of the evening on his 
hostess, and exchanged with her a few courteous 
remarks about the success of her entertainment. 

But as he walked down the broad, thickly car- 
peted staircase, Zelia’s arm resting upon his own, he 
returned to the subject so unfortunately interrupted, 
and said : 

“ I do earnestly hope, Miss Van Cleet, that the 
moments of precious sympathy that have been 
granted us to-night, will be kept in your memory 
with just a little of the delight with which I shall 
treasure them.” 

There was no answer except a slight pressure of 
the slender arm. But Serge knew now that his 
evening had not been spent in vain. 

Having reached the theater doors, the party dis- 
banded. Mrs. Nettleton undertook to carry Zelia 
home in her brougham, while the Redfields, Miss 
Vane and Herbert Wilson drove away to the Chil- 
lingworth dance. Count Rieussec and Senor Dom- 
enico Salaveyra decided to smoke a cigar together 
on their way to the same entertainment. And 
Serge, left to his own devices after refusing many 
offers to go and spend the rest of the night with his 
recent acquaintances, turned his steps southwards. 


244 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


He had not reached Broadway, however, his 
friendly cigarette between his lips, before a man 
who seemed to have been awaiting, outside, the close 
of the performance, walked straight to him, and 
lifting his hat with a gesture of obsequious polite- 
ness, exclaimed in Russian : 

“ What a lucky man I am, Sergui Alexandrovitch ! 
Here you are at last! Think of it, I have called 
upon you every morning this week, and have always 
found you out. And I had such interesting things 
to tell you, too ! Shall we walk a little way 
together? ” 

It was Father Dyonisius Photiades, and he had a 
sneer on his lips. 


XIII 

WHAT THE FRENCH CALL A “ MASTER-SINGER” 

It had not fared well with Father Dyonisius 
Photiades during the two weeks just elapsed. 

The reverend gentleman had never succeeded, dur- 
ing the fifty years of his eventful existence, in con- 
vincing, for any length of time, the various groups of 
people, respectable or not, with whom he had been 
thrown in contact, of the honesty of his dealings. 
In a word, he did not wear well , either among his 
very objectionable associates of the earlier years, 
who found him most deficient as far as the famous 
axiom “ there’s honor among thieves ” goes, or in 
his intercourse with the more reputable, though 
foolish, patrons and patronesses of his outlandish 
little chapel. The latter had grown fewer and 
fewer, since repeated revelations of a decidedly un- 
palatable nature had been circulated, and fully 
substantiated, concerning the Russian priest’s com- 
paratively recent New York adventures. The few 
gentlemen, members of what he liked to call “ his 
parish vestry,” had shown themselves uncomfort- 

(24s) 


246 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

ably inquisitive, of late, concerning the moneys by 
him collected to be distributed among his poorer 
brethren of the old, orthodox church ; a short in- 
vestigation had soon brought to light the fact that 
Father Photiades had declined all along to consider 
any other Christian Muscovite as being “poorer than 
himself/’ and, acting on that plea, had methodically 
annexed whatever funds were confided to him 
for charitable purposes. 

So that it had recently become but too sadly evi- 
dent that the days of the quaintly decorated chapel of 
St. Andrew the Martyr were numbered, and that 
its inventor, pastor and general Poo-Bah was to be 
very soon “ out of a job.” 

Nor had the said dignitary put by, out of his 
earnings, legitimate or not, any decent amount for 
a rainy day, having quite a ravenous family of vices 
of his own breeding, all a great deal too vulgar to be 
even mentioned in these pages, to feed and keep 
merry. Laster’s thousand dollars had just served 
to fill in a gap of some particularly dangerous 
nature in the reverend father’s accounts with his 
fellow creatures, and his pocket-book was assuming, 
day after day, a leaner appearance with no prospect 
of a new crop of gullible gudgeons undertaking the 
pleasant task of filling it anew. Thus, driven into a 
corner, the brilliant instincts of the whilom tutor 
and man-of-all-work of Serge d’lmeguy were about 
asserting themselves again, in what might be called 
a spirit of self-defense. 

The two men had walked, side by side, for a 
minute or two, before the priest ventured to address 


A “ MASTER-SINGER ” 


247 


again his moody and silent companion. Finally he 
said, laying aside the sarcastic tone of his first 
greeting : 

“ I should not have dared to come to you, in this 
way, uninvited, Sergui Alexandrovitch, if I were not 
bent upon rendering an important service to the son 
of my old benefactor, to my beloved ex-pupil and 
patron.” 

“Is that so?” answered Serge, manifesting no 
interest. 

“ Yes, and I want to do it without any hope of 
reward or even gratitude; for,” he added rapidly, 
“my debt of gratitude has to be paid first, and it 
can never be exhausted.” 

“ What’s all this rigmarole about, Dyonisius 
Ivanovitch? Say your say, and be done with it.” 

“ Oh, don’t get angry at me like that, little 
father!” cried the older man, assuming the whin- 
ing tone and the customary mode of address of 
Russians of his class appealing to their superiors. 
“ You have thought fit to drop me mercilessly, after 
our two interviews, on the day you came over to the 
Brunswick. All very well ; that’s your right. I gave 
you the hint and you profited by it. No one re- 
joices more than I do at your society successes, and 
at the happy consequences they are about having. 
Still,—” 

“ Look here, Dyonisius Ivanovitch,” interrupted 
Serge, in calm and deliberate accents, stopping 
under a gas lamp, on the southeast corner of 
Thirty-third Street and Broadway, “ you did not 
stay in wait at the doors of the ‘ Murray Hill* 


248 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

until I came out, nor did you force your company 
upon me, to talk about your devotion to my race, 
and what you are pleased to call my social successes. 
I have known you for quite awhile now, my man, 
and pretty thoroughly too. People of your kind 
don’t improve with time. You ar$ here to get 
something out of me. What is it ? ” 

With a gesture of abject humility, which, within 
doors, would doubtless have been followed by 
actual, not figurative, groveling, the priest exclaimed : 

“ How cruelly you are misjudging me, little 
father ! I am the most unhappy man in the world, 
I am, truly, to be so mistrusted by the man whose 
early youth I have trained — ” 

“ Bosh ! ” said Serge, resuming his walk as if to 
break off the wearisome interview. 

“ But, I beg of you, little father, I beg of you, lis- 
ten, listen just a minute, and then you may decide 
whether I am not still your true friend — I mean your 
most humble and devoted servant.” 

“ Speak out, man; and be quick.” 

“ Here it is, little father ; here it is. I had a visit 
this morning — ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ A visit from Sol Bramble, the leading reporter of 
the Club News." 

“ Don’t know the man, don’t know the paper,” was 
the curt reply. 

“ Of course you don’t, little father, of course you 
don’t ; but the paper and the man exist though, and, 
the one helping the other, the pair of them are a 
power in this city.” 


A “ MASTER-SINGER 


249 




“ Are they ? ” 

“ Rarely for good, never I should say; for bad, 
often. More than one life has been wrecked by some 
of their wretchedly clever paragraphs, more than one 
man driven out of town by their venomous revela- 
tions, more than one marriage, on the eve of cele- 
bration, irremediably broken off.” 

The Duke was now walking on, silent but atten- 
tive, his head lowered as if he understood the threat- 
ening storm that was coming. 

“ Yes,” resumed the priest, and, strange to say, his 
voice had recovered some of the half insolent pung- 
ency it displayed when addressing Serge a few steps 
away from the “ Murray Hill.” “Yes, Sol Bramble, 
of the Club News , came up to my flat, and we had a 
talk.” 

“ I suppose he wanted to know when the Sheriff 
is to close, for good and ever, the doors of the 
Chapel of St. Andrew the Martyr?” asked Serge, 
who had recently been taught a thing or two con- 
cerning Dyonisius’s latest exploits. 

“ He did not, Sergui Alexandrovitch,” retorted 
Photiades, now thoroughly aroused, for the taunt 
had struck home ; “ he wanted to know about you 
— and a certain evening at the English Club.” 

In the glare of an electric lamp, under which the 
two men were just then passing, the eyes of the 
priest, fixed upon Serge’s face, saw it grow of an 
ashy paleness, while the young man’s hands clutched 
nervously at an imaginary enemy. For fully five 
minutes’ time not a word was said by either. They 
were passing the door of the Monopole tobacco store. 


250 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


The Duke walked in, and entering, like a habitue, 
the cafe at the back, made a sign the quickwitted 
waiter understood. A wine-glassful of vodka having 
been brought to him on a salver, he swallowed the 
raw alcohol at one gulp, threw some silver on the 
table, and withdrew with a nod. The priest had 
been waiting outside. They turned into silent West 
Twenty-fifth Street, and slowed their walk, until, 
after passing Trinity Church, the Duke stopped 
short, looked Dyonisius straight in the face and 
asked : 

44 And you answered? ” 

“ I answered : 4 How much ? \ ” 

“ And he replied ? ” 

“ He replied : 4 Five thousand now ; five thousand 
on the evening before the marriage day.’ ” 

44 I’ll give more.” 

Controlling a slight start of exultation, the priest 
asked in an altered voice : 

44 What do you mean ? ” 

44 I mean that you may have — ” 

44 Oh! me! little father, what have I to do in this 
sad affair, but to act as your own servant and slave — ” 
44 Enough, man.' I know you better than you 
know me. You have something to sell, and I’ll 
buy it ; and pay a good price, too, if you do my bid- 
ding, otherwise, nothing. You have had no re- 
porter’s visit, and the only blackmailer in the case 
was the scoundrel you gazed at this morniug in 
your own looking-glass.” 

44 Sergui Alexandrovitch, you are forgetting 
yourself — ” 


A “ MASTER-SINGER ” 


251 


“ Keep quiet, fellow, and listen. I have spoken 
to you in this wise, and using the very same words 
probably, in the old Petersburg days. Why should 
I put on gloves, now ? And why are you so much 
offended about trifles since I tell you that the goods 
you have for sale, I am here to purchase ? ” 

“ But, little father, little father, I swear to you 
that it is all this paper, this abominable paper — ” 
“All right ; let us keep up the fiction. To that 
paper, then, to that paper through your hands and 
without receipt from either you or it, I shall pay to- 
morrow morning, at my hotel, one thousand dollars 
in gold, and twenty-four hours before my wedding 
day, ten thousand dollars more — ” 

“Ten thousand dollars more — ” repeated the 
priest, his breath going and coming excitedly. 
What an easy task it had been, after all ! 

“ This little matter settled,” the Duke added, gaz- 
ing down upon the priest with a look the other man 
remembered well from days gone by and quailed 
under now as he had done then ; “ I don’t suppose 
you have any further business with me?” 

“Little father, little father, how have you the 
heart to treat your own devoted servant like this?” 
cried Dyonisius, vainly trying to give his voice a 
tearful intonation. His delight was too great, he 
could not. 

“That’ll do. Good night.” 

And turning upon his heel, with the sharp clang 
of an ex-page of the Czarina, Serge d’lmeguy 
walked away, in rapid strides, toward the Sixth 
Avenue end of Twenty-fifth Street. 


252 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

Slowly rubbing his fat, soft hands, his ex-tutor 
and present “ singing master” — do not the French 
call such blackmailers Maitres-C hauteur s ? — made 
his inglorious retreat toward Madison Square, mut- 
tering between his ill-shaped teeth : 

“ Money isn’t all, Sergui Alexandrovitch — there’s 
another account to be settled. Every dog its day.” 

In the night, where he belonged, the man disap- 
peared. 

So Serge d’lmeguy’s sin had found him out again, 
the only episode in his life that nothing, not a 
mountain of gold or a river of diamonds could ever 
hide from the knowledge of men ! To his last day, 
like a released convict unearthed by his companions 
on the chain-gang, he would be hounded by the 
abominable consequences of that deed. It was years 
ago — but years availed him nothing ! It was six 
thousand miles away — but what was distance for an 
odious rumor that impregnated the very air he 
breathed ? Maroussia knew of it, and sneered at his 
being fleeced by gamblers he could so easily beat at 
their own devices. Laster knew of it, and threw at 
his head the girl he had vainly courted and wretch- 
edly compromised. And now, upon his path, this 
slimy snake lifted its hissing head and claimed a 
share in the booty. Indeed there are hours in one’s 
life when the hand feels instinctively for a full- 
loaded and trusty revolver. 

There is not, there has never been, any perfect 
human being ; we mean any man or woman whose 
existence, as a whole, has followed, from the first to 


A “ MASTER-SINGER 


253 


the last breath, the straight line of imperturbable 
logic. The galleys of old tortured, and the modern 
state prisons keep under lock and key, no perfect 
type of vice or criminality. A weak strain is notice- 
able in the blackest miscreant, and generations of 
dissolute, ultra-selfish and pitilessly voluptuous 
nabobs or grandees have not yet begotten the abso- 
lutely conscience-blunted, steel-hearted and remorse- 
less being whose appearance upon earth would 
bring a jealous leer upon the lips of the King of 
Darkness himself. A last remnant of the bond that 
once connected the totally depraved with his nobler 
fellow-creatures, still persists with singular obsti- 
nacy. And it does not assert itself in that wave of 
penitential desolation preachers and poets are so 
fond of expatiating upon, but in the immense, in- 
curable regret of the early misdeed stupidly botched, 
of the irremediable sin others forever remember and 
proclaim. It does not stop the evil-doer one minute 
upon the road of perdition; it does not awaken a 
qualm in his deadened moral nature; - it simply sick- 
ens his very soul with the consciousness of the 
“ could have been.” And through such throes of 
almost unbearable agony, Serge d’lmeguy felt him- 
self suddenly passing. 

These last weeks spent by him in daily association 
with people who were neither blacklegs nor silly 
dupes, neither croupiers nor music hall managers, 
neither actresses with their genius in their lower 
limbs nor painted beauties in the pay of some rich 
Jew financier, had been to him like the first whiff of 
fresh air after months of slow poisoning in a sick 


254 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

man’s room. What survived in him of the gentle- 
man had seemed to take a new lease of life and to 
wash away, with the waters of Lethe, the nauseous 
remembrance of his latest surroundings. And the 
near prospect of seeing such an existence perpetu- 
ated, without the ever-recurring lack of funds hang- 
ing over him like Damocles’ sword, had added an 
inexpressible sense of relief to this fairy-like change 
of scenery and performers. At certain moments, 
Serge d’lmeguy actually thought himself growing 
into another naan, dignified, of steady habits, 
almost affectionate — 

The continued and highly tactful disappearance 
of Cortlandt Laster ; the manner of his (Serge’s) 
introduction to the young girl who was to become 
his wife ; his quietly developing intimacy with her, 
and the charm she unwittingly exerted over him 
in spite of his constitutional, or rather gambler-like, 
imperviousness to woman’s influence, all these cir- 
cumstances so much in accordance with society’s 
strictest conventionalities, had helped him forget 
the despicable bargain, but two weeks old, that had 
given him access within the charmed circle. A 
Slav, saturated with the gambling instincts, is the 
most oblivious being upon earth, and starts his life 
anew, every morning as it were, with all his imper- 
ishable faith in his only deity, Chance, as fresh and 
unshaken as ever. It took the thunderbolt of 
Dyonisius Photiades’ brusque attack upon his purse, 
to shatter to the ground this fragile edifice of a few 
days’ building, and to place Serge d’lmeguy face to 
face again with the specter of his unburied past. 


A “ MASTER-SINGER ” 


255 


It was not long, though, before the cool, deter- 
mined spirit that had carried the Russian Duke 
through the many untoward incidents of his adven- 
turous career, asserted itself again, and brought back 
with it a more sensible, business-like understanding 
of the present situation. That he had been, of late, 
indulging in a dangerous dose of sentimental diva- 
gation, he had to acknowledge to himself with the 
mea culpa of the schemer “ caught napping/’ He 
saw it all in a minute, in its true light. The deci- 
sive battle of his life was being fought, not won. 
If he was ever to reach that unhoped-for goal of 
full freedom from loathsome ties and petty cares, 
he had to keep his wits about him, and to let no 
man or woman interfere with the realization of his 
plans. Photiades he had disposed of, in short order; 
and the measures taken by him to break off, with- 
out the danger of an explosion or even the worry 
of a scene, his connection with Maroussia la Juva, 
had been laid out with such infinite and astute 
attention to details, that he foresaw no possibility 
of failure. 

Slowly pacing the sidewalk, on the Twenty- 
fourth Street side of the “New York Gaiety,” be- 
tween the Sixth Avenue corner and the house of 
the Fathers of Mercy, Serge had thus revolved in 
his mind the diverse phases of this new crisis in 
his life. A sudden calm, proceeding from a set and 
grim purpose, had gradually replaced the flood of 
bewildered desperation called forth by Dyonisius 
Photiades’ blackmailing onslaught. And when he 
noticed, at the stage entrance of the Music Hall, the 


256 


CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 


goings and comings that denoted the end of the 
performance, he stopped short at the door, waiting 
for Maroussia to step out. A carriage she was 
accustomed to use whenever she felt fatigued 
and desired to ride home, was stationed 
at the curb, between the empty bottled-beer 
wagons which proclaimed in bold red lettering that 
“The New York Gaiety beer is the New York fami- 
ly beer.” A minute later, the dancer, the tambour- 
ine player, Ossip Stepanovitch, in her wake, came out 
of the building, and, nodding pleasantly at the Duke, 
took a seat beside him in the waiting coupe. 
While it rolled on toward Mere Valzy’s private hos- 
telry, she said, coming nearer to her lord and mas- 
ter, and taking his hand, with a gesture of infinite 
grace and devotion : 

“I hardly expected you to come for me to-night, 
Sergui Alexandrovitch.” 

He kissed her on the lips, with a quick matten-of- 
fact bonhommie. 

“As I told you yesterday, I was afraid my Uncle 
Bolenski would not let me go. But we finished our 
rubber at the club rather earlier than usual, and, for 
once, the old General, inveterate night-bird though 
he is, spoke of goingtobed. I acquiesced, of course, 
so that I should not disappoint you, and here I am.” 

She gave his hand a slight pressure, and nestled 
closer to him. He looked down upon her black- 
hooded, bowed head with an unfeigned expression 
of surprise upon his face. How different she had 
grown of late from the stern, intractable, passionate 
girl who had held him, year after year, in narrower 


A “master-singer” 257 

and more jealous bondage ! A sort of subtle tender- 
ness seemed to have softened the wildness of her 
exacting love ; her voice had lost that brusque, im- 
perative tone which had always grated so cruelly 
upon his forced submissiveness. Nor had it 
returned to those humble, slave-like accents with 
which she addressed, in days gone by, the great 
Russian Lords who flattered and petted her, the 
star among Gypsy dancers; it now sounded like an 
exquisitely feminine echo from a heart brimful with 
love’s intense yearning. And her manner had also 
changed to a sort of strange shyness, while in her 
deep, dark eyes, a light was now glowing, that spoke 
of hopes only known to the maidens illumined by 
the sacred joys of coming wifehood. Indeed, 
Dyonisius Photiades’ cunning words had evoked in 
her soul a dream that had gained over her whole 
self an unconquerable mastery. 

Not a breath had escaped her lips, though, concern- 
ing this new and burning aspiration of her heart, dur- 
ing the few hours she passed daily in Serge d’Im6- 
guy’s company. The young man had found it easy 
enough to explain to her the transfer of his person 
and chattels to the Hotel Brunswick ; the sudden — 
and of course imaginary — arrival of a relative had suf- 
ficed as a motive, Maroussia being accustomed to 
have him keep a separate establishment whenever 
he saw fit to do so. It was, perhaps, harder for her, 
just then, in a land she hated and among people she 
knew, and wanted to know, nothing about. But 
still, no shadow of doubt as to Serge’s absolute 
fidelity having ever troubled her mind, she cared 

Cortlandt — 17 


258 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

little in whose society he spent the hours that were 
not devoted to her. She understood vaguely that 
certain social ties had to be kept unloosened, and 
having never been told of her lover’s true status 
among his peers, had always attributed the singular 
life he led to his want of money on the one hand, 
and to his unconquerable passion for play, on the 
other. Besides, what was all this to her? She had 
been — or she had believed herself to be, which 
amounts to the same thing — the sole woman for 
whom Serge had ever shown any sort of attachment ; 
not the slightest rumor had reached her ears, during 
all these years of wandering, that could shake this 
implicit confidence, grown now into a sort of dog- 
ma. Indeed, she had no fear to lose him ; and still, 
with that reverential awe women of her class never 
fail to entertain toward marriage, her whole soul’s 
power was centered upon this sole object : to change 
this frail tenure of his heart into an unbreakable 
bond, blessed by law and church. 

“ And do you really expect,” she asked, after a 
silence her yearnings had filled, “ that your uncle 
will act toward you as generously as you hoped he 
would ? Has he spoken again of making you a 
sufficient allowance? ” 

“ He has, and he has not,” Serge replied, for he 
saw himself forced to keep up a fiction he had 
thought fit to allow Maroussia to feed upon ; 
besides he had to explain in some way the rather 
prosperous state of his exchequer, for he had not 
come to her for money lately, and spoke no more of 
gaming successes. “ The old man has been quite 


A “ MASTER-SINGER 


259 


» 


kind and considerate, and handed me a nice bundle 
of banknotes the first day I saw him. But he has 
set his heart upon a scheme of his own I cannot 
think of favoring.” 

“ Is it something so very difficult or unpleasant ? ” 
asked the voice under the black satin hood. 

“ It certainly is, Maroussia mia ; for it is nothing 
less than my marrying, to ‘ perpetuate my name and 
race * — as he likes to put it, in his old-fashioned, 
pompous way.” 

The words gave the girl just a slight, nervous 
start. 

“ Don’t you think it’s growing colder ?” she said 
at once in an altered voice. 

He raised the window next to her, without 
answering. The outside air was balmy and pure. 
Maroussia asked : 

“ And, I suppose he has a bride quite ready for 
you, if you acceed to his wishes? ” 

“ I am happy to say he has not,” Serge said with 
perfect indifference of tone and manner ; “ and it’s 
better so, since my refusal would be doubly unpalat- 
able to the dear old chap. He simply said that 
he didn’t care much whom I should marry, if only 
I would settle down into a full-fledged benedict and 
pater familias .” 

“ Isn’t the General married ? Has he no children ? ” 

“ He was married, but he is now a childless wid- 
ower.” 

Serge’s recollections were serving him in good 
stead, as the uncle he now spoke of really existed, 
but was dragging on his gouty existence, between 


260 cortlandt laster, capitalist 

his pet dogs and the card-table, on his estate in 
Little Russia. “Yes,” he added, “and he married 
a French actress from the Theater Michel.” 

“ She made him a good wife ? ” the voice under the 
hood queried. 

“ Excellent ; none better Everybody in Peters- 
burg had to acknowledge the fact, after awhile.” 

“ And did they— I mean the people over there, 
your people, accept her kindly ? ” 

“ They did. She was a great favorite in no time. 
And, when she died, there were a couple of Grand 
Dukes at the funeral.” 

“ Happy woman ! ” 

This was a singular observation to make concern- 
ing a dead woman, but it went like a flash through 
Serge’s quickwitted brain. He understood it all 
now : Maroussia’s extraordinary alteration, the pa- 
tient insinuating tenderness that had replaced her 
wild, often harsh, outbursts of passion, the looks of 
unutterable yearning he had not failed to notice in 
her eyes, all those symptoms that had puzzled him so 
much of late ; through some strange, unaccountable 
cause, the girl thought of him, the companion of 
those five long years of varied experiences, as the 
husband that would be hers one day — 

Any other man would have felt either indignant 
or touched ; indignant, if struck by the extraordi- 
nary audacity of such a hope on the part of the 
Gypsy dancer, picked up by him on the Petersburg 
streets ; touched, if he truly believed in the girl’s 
intensely unselfish attachment, and remembered 
all she had done for him. No such sensations were 


A “ MASTER-SINGER ” 26l 

Serge’s. He had never loved Maroussia, not for 
one hour’s time, and he had lately grown to hate 
her, as the living reminder of the darkest night in 
his life ; and if anything could add fuel to the fire of 
that hatred, it was the conviction, coming upon him 
with this startling suddenness, that she must think 
her hold upon him strong enough to be transformed, 
at her own sweet will, into a bond of matrimony. 
So, after Dyonisius, exacting heavy pay for a few 
days’ silence, stood Maroussia, ready to claim her 
due, and to be contented only by the gift of his name. 
To the priest he had thrown money as a bone to 
pick ; to the girl, his Slavonic craft would serve a 
carefully cooked dish of his own making. 

The carriage stopped before another word had 
been exchanged between the lovers. Serge, who sat 
nearest to the curb, opened the door, and helped his 
companion out. As they were walking together up 
the stairs of the high stoop, they noticed Mere Valzy, 
standing at the open window of the basement, 
smoking her fifth Havana of the evening. Courteous 
bonsoirs were called out, and, using his pass-key, the 
Duke followed Maroussia into the house. 

The door had hardly closed behind him, when 
along the deserted sidewalk, came, bright and cheery, 
and full of the indomitable liveliness of the born 
reporter, Karlo Yoshka himself, with his usual budget 
of small talk and spicy gossip for his old friend’s 
delighted ears. 

And just as he reached the window of the dining- 
room, he cried, not even waiting until he entered the 
house : 


262 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ Say, Madame Valzy, I just saw your Herr 
Bolensk get home with his sweetheart — I tell you, I 
have a bit of news about him that’ll stun you.” 

“ What is it? what is it ? ” 

“ I saw him to-night in a box with the Redfield 
crowd, at the 'Murray Hill.’ His name is Duke 
Serge de Valois d’lmeguy — ” 

“ Now, what did I tell you ? ” 

“ — and they say he is engaged to that beautiful bud 
who raised such a racket at the Grandfathers’ Grand- 
sons’ ball, a couple of weeks ago, Zelia Van Cleet, 
Cortlandt Laster’s protegee." 


XIV 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 

On that morning — it was the third Tuesday in 
May, and, for a wonder, the Avenue looked clean, 
and the Square well trimmed — about ten days after 
the incidents just related, Serge d’lmeguy, in a 
smoking jacket of English cut and sober hue, was 
pacing, up and down his sitting room, at the Hotel 
Brunswick, his trusty cigarette between his lips. 

Upon a table, near by, his morning tea was laid 
out, with all the luxurious appointments of a first- 
class hostelry. 

Very soon he heard a knock at the door, and 
walked to the entrance to himself admit the evi- 
dently expected caller. 

It was Cortlandt Laster, looking very trim and 
well groomed in his full suit of mixed tweed and 
his close cropped hair and beard. 

The two men bowed to each other, with scrupu- 
lous courtesy, neither extending his hand, however. 
They were soon seated on either side of the fire- 
place that sent forth the radiance and mild warmth 

(263) 


264 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


of a cheerful wood fire, not unwelcome in the chilly 
New York spring-tide. Upon a small round table 
at his elbow, loaded with smokers’ paraphernalia, 
the older man laid down a rather bulky package, 
neatly wrapped up in strong brown paper, and tied 
together by means of broad rubber bands. Then, 
having answered politely the customary greetings, 
addressed him by his host, he assumed the plain 
and decided tone of a man of business, on business 
bent. 

“We have seen very little of each other, Mon- 
sieur le Due , during the last few weeks ; just enough 
to keep in good working order the tacit understand- 
ing we reached on our first meeting in these rooms.” 

“ If I am not mistaken,” Serge d’lmeguy replied, 
in the same tone, “ you much preferred to have 
things run that way ? ” 

“ I did, and I have only praise to. bestow upon 
your tactful management of our common interests.” 

The Duke bowed his head ceremoniously. 

“ But I thought,” resumed Cortlandt Laster, 
“ that the moment had come for a second interview 
of some importance, and I am pleased to see that 
you have taken the necessary measures for our not 
being interrupted.” 

“ Yes, my valet, whom I sent on some errands, 
left word downstairs that I should not be at home 
to visitors or tradespeople, for a couple of hours or- 
so.” 

“ And I walked straight up here, without sending 
my -name, thus avoiding all possible comments. I 
don’t doubt but that you ‘ read between the lines ’ 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 265 

of my short and formal note requesting this inter- 
view ? ” 

“ I think I did, sir ? ” 

“ There remains therefore, very few, if any, 
preliminaries to go through. I understand that 
your marriage to Miss Van Cleet is to take place 
to-morrow, at noon, in the Protestant Episcopal 
Church of St. Margaret, on lower Fifth Avenue?” 

“ It is, Mr. Laster. As you certainly know, a 
cablegram from my Russian relatives shortens, per- 
force, my stay in this country, and Mrs. Van Cleet 
has most kindly condescended to have my very 
recent engagement with Miss Zelia transformed, 
without any delay, into matrimonial bonds. My 
fiancee has also graciously consented to this unusual 
curtailing of the ante-nuptial period.” 

“ And you propose leaving the country at once, 
Monsieur le Due f ” 

“Not exactly at once, my dear sir; but by La 
Gascogne, of the French line, next Saturday.” 

“ I suppose you expect no unforeseen difficulties 
to interfere with the full realization of your plans ?” 

“ None whatever, Mr. Laster — if they do not 
come from you.” 

“ Oh ! this need not trouble you in the least, 
Monsieur le Due ; one of my motives in desiring this 
interview was to settle all possible anxieties you may 
harbor on that score ; ” and the millionaire’s white 
fingers carelessly tapped the bundle on the table by 
his side. 

“ I was thinking of quite a different sort of obsta- 
cle,” he added, speaking slowly ; “that man, Dyon- 


266 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


isius Photiades, came to my rooms at the Club, 
yesterday morning.” 

“ Oh ! did he ? ” exclaimed Serge, with a half sup- 
pressed yawn of utter indifference. “ I don’t doubt 
but that his Reverence wanted to draw upon your 
exchequer as he did upon mine recently ?” 

“ You are mistaken, Monsieur le Due ; to my 
utter surprise the fellow did not ask for any further 
subsidy. By the by, you probably know that his 
chapel business went to pieces a few days ago? ” 

“ I heard the fact mentioned in my presence.” 

“ The man has proved no better than he should 
be. And if I had any doubts about his worthless- 
ness, he very kindly relieved me of them.” 

“Oh, I knew all about the scoundrel’s familiar 
tricks, some ten years ago, already.” 

“ So he said — I mean he spoke of your old-time 
relations, and he added a few facts of a more recent 
date.” 

“Did he, indeed? Were they news to you, my 
dear Mr. Laster, if I may make bold to ask?” 

“ Well, not exactly ; in fact, not at all — Baron 
Braunschweig already had — ” 

“Yes, I remember now — you mentioned the 
Baron’s name before. Well?” 

“ Oh ! nothing in particular ; only that I sent the 
‘Pop’ about his business, with some vigorous dis- 
play of contempt, and I imagined that he might try 
to take his revenge by interfering with your imme- 
diate projects.” 

“ I thank you warmly for the warning, Mr. Laster, 
but I think that in that respect — as in all others — ” 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 2 67 

“As in all others?” 

“As I just said — in all others , my measures are 
well and carefully taken.” 

“Iam most happy to hear it, Monsieur le Due; 
and now a very few more words of mine will com- 
plete the purposes of this visit. First of all,” and 
here the capitalist undid the ties that held together 
the package he had laid on the table, “ here are two 
hundred one thousand dollar greenbacks, which are 
to be yours from this hour; besides, in this separate 
bundle, you will find fifteen thousand dollars, repre- 
senting the first quarter of your yearly allowance, 
to be used of course for the general housekeeping 
expenses of Monsieur le Due and Madame la Duch- 
esse d’lmeguy. I have invested in your joint names, 
and through a third party in whose discretion I have 
absolute confidence, a sufficient amount in gilt- 
edged interest-bearing securities, to produce an in- 
come of sixty thousand dollars per annum, against 
which you may at any time draw your checks, signed 
by husband and wife jointly. Here is the name of 
the Trust Company in charge of your interests, and 
the details of the trust. As you will see my name 
appears nowhere.” 

“ I see,” answered Serge, throwing a sharp but 
apparently negligent glance upon the business-look- 
ing document displayed before his eyes. Then, 
opening a narrow drawer under the center-table, he 
tossed into it the various packages and papers, and 
with perfect nonchalance turned the key in the lock, 
drew it out and pocketed it. Then smiling to his 
visitor, he said courteously : 


268 


CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 


“ If you come to Europe soon, Mr. Laster, I feel 
sure that the Duchess will be much pleased to see 
you — for auld lang syne s sake, as you English-speak- 
ing people like to say.” There was a vague smile 
upon the Russian nobleman’s lips as he made this 
invitation, the meaning of which escaped not the 
New Yorker’s shrewd understanding. 

“ Indeed I shall be delighted to avail myself of 
the permission, Monsieur le Due . I suppose that you 
will spend a portion of the next winter on the 
Riviera ? ” 

“ Miss Van Cleet showed herself desirous of visit- 
ing Cannes and Nice when the season is at its best, 
towards January. I have no doubt but that you would 
find us there, should you desire to seek this favored 
clime.” 

“ It is among the possibilities, certainly,” replied 
Laster, who now rose to go. “ By the way, I shall 
have to ask you to kindly excuse my absence at the 
wedding-feast, to-morrow. I have some imperious 
business that calls me away this afternoon and will 
keep me out of town until the end of the month. I 
had the honor of begging Mrs. Van Cleet to pardon 
my unavoidable desertion on that great day.” 

“ I am, indeed, sorry to hear that we shall miss you 
on that occasion, Mr. Laster.” 

“ So, I shall offer you now my very best wishes, 
Monsieur le Due, and, at the same time, say farewell for 
the present,” and he offered his gloved hand to Serge. 

Looking at it with perfect composure, for a short 
but very noticeable interval, the Duke finally placed 
in Laster’s palm a couple of his long bony fingers. 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 269 

There was the semblance of a clasp and a shake. 
Then the two men bowed to each other ceremon- 
iously, and, through the doors held open by the Duke, 
Cortlandt Laster slowly withdrew. 

His host had hardly been left alone a minute, than 
he exclaimed between his teeth that glittered in the 
sunshine : 

“ Au revoir, Monsieur Laster, au revoir, until we 
meet again under the shadow of the Monte Carlo 
Club House. — What a delightful ‘ old friend of the 
family ’ you’ll be to a player of trente et quarante 
down on his luck ! And Madame la Duchesse may 
sing you all the auld lang syne you care for, if — ” 

The sentence remained unfinished, but not un- 
thought ; the valet was entering the room, several 
bundles in his arms, and with a number of letters 
and cards for his master. 

Serge looked them over rapidly, not deigning to 
open any of the square envelopes he well knew to 
contain nothing but commonplace congratulations 
from his friends of a month. One name, though, 
scribbled upon one of the hotel cards, attracted his 
attention. It read : 

The Reverend Father D. I. Photiades 
and underneath : 

Didn’t you tell me to come to you to-day f 

A scowl settled upon the Duke’s pale visage as 
he perused the message thus sent up to him by his 
ex-tutor and remembered that the man was calling 
for his second installment of blood money. He had 
just been told the treatment he had received at his 
hands, a treatment which, under any other circum- 


270 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

stances and supposing his connection with Cort- 
landt Laster to have been of a different nature, 
would have proved fatal to his interests. Not con- 
tent with bleeding him to the tune of eleven thou- 
sand dollars, Dyonisius had attempted to ruin him 
in the eyes of the man the scoundrel must have 
thought all-powerful in this marriage matter. And 
now he sent word, with incredible impudence, that 
he was waiting downstairs to have the agreed 
money paid him in hand, just as if he had done his 
share in the bargain by himself dictated. For a 
moment, Serge decided that he would foil the man’s 
hopes and keep this large sum for some sure invest- 
ment upon his beloved green cloth ; the Club News 
came out on Saturday ; no other paper of the 
same unsavory record was due until that day, i. e. y 
too late to do him now any harm. What if he should 
default in his payment to the despicable extor- 
tioner? But, a second later, a remnant of his old 
imperious Muscovite nobleman’s nature urged him, 
with such irresistible force, to pay the wretch his 
due and be done with him, that he called his valet 
from the inner room, and ordered the priest to be 
brought upstairs. 

During the few minutes he was left alone, 
Serge rapidly opened the drawer he used provision- 
ally as a cash box, picked up ten new, crisp, thou- 
sand dollar bills, and pushed back the drawer, which 
he locked again. Then, walking to the fireplace, he 
seized a pair of curiously worked iron tongs leaning 
against the mantelpiece, and returned to his chair, 
holding them in his hands. A noise of steps was 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 


27I 


heard outside, and Fedor, his servant, having intro- 
duced Dyonisius Photiades into the room, imme- 
diately withdrew. 

The “Pop,” as fat and oily and smirking as ever, 
was about crossing the room, with a great display of 
obsequious glee, when a curt gesture from Serge's 
left arm nailed him to the carpet, a couple of feet 
from the door. Before he had time to open his 
dps, his eyes met the look of his ex-pupil fixed upon 
him with an expression he could not misunderstand. 
Not a word was uttered by the Duke, whose stare 
never moved from the face of the treacherous 
wretch'. Then slowly arose the Duke’s right arm, 
holding the tongs, and, between the tongs, a bundle 
of banknotes. Across the table, arm and tongs 
were stretched in dumb proffer. 

Trembling all over with impotent wrath and inex- 
pressible humiliation, the dishonored priest feebly 
extended his hand, and seized the notes. He 
hardly held them within his grasp, than Serge had 
risen from his seat, and with the iron instrument 
still in his hand, pointed to the door, saying in a 
cold, unimpassioned voice: 

“ Protch sabak! ” (go, dog !) 

Crouching under the look and the word, his bearded 
face sinking upon his breast, the man turned his 
back, felt for the door knob as if half blind, and, a 
second later, had walked out, tottering under the 
withering insult. 

It was a busy day for Serge, this last day before 
his espousals. Much busier, perhaps, than his 


2 72 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

enthusiastic New York friends thought, at the time. 
They had vainly tried to monopolize him entirely, 
afternoon and evening, under pretense of burying, 
in the conventional fashion and with the 
accustomed display of hilariousness, his expiring 
bachelorhood. All they could obtain from him, 
however — and the delightedly exuberant Herbert 
Wilson acted as their spokesman — was a promise to 
join them at dinner in a private room at the Hoff- 
man House, shortly after eight o'clock. 

In the meantime, the Duke had paid a long and 
most correctly effusive visit to the Van Cleet man- 
sion, a huge bunch of white rcfees preceding him. 
The house was full of tradespeople, caterers and 
the like, receiving their final orders for the great 
event or already engaged in making suitable prepar- 
ations. Zelia herself was in the hands of her friends, 
a bevy of young girls whom their mothers had 
now no objections whatever to see associating with 
a future Duchess de Valois d’lmeguy He there- 
fore saw very little of his fiancee , and had full time 
to settle many important questions with Mrs. Van 
Cleet, who managed to keep her exultation within 
bounds. Ignorant of all these social mysteries, but 
nodding his good, white-haired head in constant ap- 
proval, old Dr. Van Cleet hobbled about, leaning 
heavily on a stout stick and smiling and whining 
by turns; for the poor man did care for his only 
daughter about to leave him, perhaps forever. 

A series of visits to various shops and down-town 
offices occupied Serge’s remaining moments of 
liberty. He very wisely decided to purchase, with 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 


2 73 


the large sums he had just received, bills of ex- 
change upon various first-class European banks. He 
might have visited Belmont’s, or Drexel’s, or Mun- 
roe’s, and deposited the whole amount in bulk, sub- 
ject to his checks on the other side. But such a 
move would not have passed unnoticed ; so he de- 
cided to take the trouble of calling at a dozen 
different National Banks, known to sell drafts on 
the Bank of England, the Paris Societe Generale 
or the Berlin Credit Anstalt, and to thus disseminate 
his resources in an unostentatious way. A couple 
of thousand he had changed into smaller bills, and 
kept by him for contingencies. A large cabin on deck 
had already been reserved for him, on board the 
French steamer leaving on the following Saturday. 
He drove to Bowling Green, and settled the full 
amount of the passage money. Then, having 
picked up, at his hotel, a small leathern valise, 
a satchel he was accustomed to hang across his 
shoulders and a bundle of rugs and umbrellas, he 
notified Fedor that he might be out all night, 
and drove away in the direction of West Fourteenth 
Street. 

It was hardly more than six o’clock when his cab 
deposited him, man and baggage, at the door of 
Mere Valzy’s boarding house. 

The modest hostelry was getting in shape for the 
evening meal, and many of the guests were already 
enjoying their absinthe or vermouth on a corner of 
the laid-out table, Karlo Yoshka among them. As 
the journalist saw d’lmeguy walking up the stoop, 
he whispered his name to his companions, and they 

Cortlandt — 18 


274 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

all looked out, with much excited curiosity. Mere 
Valzy had joined the group, and said: 

“ Here is our Beau Brummel coming to say good- 
by, I suppose?” 

“ Is La Juwa then really going to-night, Madame 
Valzy ? 9 \ asked Karlo. 

“ She is, my dear boy ; the trunks are off already, 
all marked Germanic , Cabin Passenger. The boat 
leaves at five to-morrow morning, and the girl told 
me that she would sleep on board.” 

“ And she goes alone ? ” 

“ She did not say a word about that. But she 
knows how to keep her own counsel, and is not one 
of your prattlers — ” 

“You did not notice any signs of desolation? She 
didn’t act au naturel the deserted Ariadne?” 

“ No tears, no lamentations. If anything, a trifle 
happier looking than ever before.” 

“ Now that’s a stunner ! with her lover just as 
good as married by this time ! ” 

“ Are you absolutely sure that he is to marry that 
Miss Van Cleet to-morrow?” 

“ Of course I am. The thing was kept pretty 
quiet, but not quiet enough though for the evening 
papers not to get hold of it. I tell you, there must 
be a swarm of reporters awaiting him at the Brunswick, 
by this time. The engagement was suspected all 
along, this last fortnight, but the dead sure i cinch ’ 
only materialized this morning, when the wife of the 
rector of St. Margaret let the cat out of the bag; 
her husband is to marry the couple at noon 
to-morrow.” 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 


275 


“ What singular proceedings ! ” 

“ Rather explainable under the circumstances, 
don’t you think so ? Still, the smile upon the face of 
the girl upstairs rather staggers me — Oh ! I under- 
stand- -the two are to meet again very soon on the 
other side of the big pond ; it’s only une fausse sortie, 
as the French say; not a break, a mere interruption^ 
— and Maroussia la Juwa will come on top after 
awhile.” 

“ You must be right, my dear fellow,” said Mother 
Valzy, with one of her particularly shrewd smiles, 
“ unless — ” 

“ Unless what ? ” 

“ Now that’s my secret, and I’ll keep it, if you 
please, just for a couple of days longer — But be- 
lieve me, there is an ‘ unless.’ ” And the good land- 
lady went off to the kitchen, to order the potage 
served. 

Upstairs, the interview between Maroussia and 
Serge had been as uneventful and business-like as 
possible. The Duke had just dropped in to say 
that he was invited to a parting dinner, by his uncle 
and a few mutual friends, but that he would return 
to the boarding house shortly after midnight, and 
drive to the pier with Maroussia. He gave her the 
number of a double cabin taken in the name of Herr 
and Frau Bolensk and left in her rooms, now de- 
spoiled of all the luggage of the dancer, his valise, 
satchel, and bundle of rugs. A quick kiss, and off 
he was, the cab having waited for him at the curb. 

The perfect equanimity of Maroussia’s humor, 


2 y6 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

that new light Mere Valzy had discovered in her 
eyes, were now easily accounted for. La Juwa’s 
engagement at the “ Gaiety ” being ended, she was 
to sail for Europe on the morrow, with her lover. 
Not a shadow had darkened yet the dream of her 
secure happiness, illumined by an exquisite ray of 
hope she hardly dared believe in. 

A few minutes before one o’clock, that night, a 
carriage stopped at the door of Mere Valzy’s board- 
ing house, and Maroussia, who had been expecting 
it for some time, came out upon the stoop, already 
equipped for her long voyage. Her kind hostess 
stepped forward to shake hands with her, and to 
wish her a very happy return to the old country. 
Serge, who had entered the sitting-room to fetch 
his small baggage, answered a few words of polite 
acknowledgement, and took off his hat as a parting 
salute to Mere Valzy and her foundation guest, 
Karlo Yoshka, who looked out of the basement win- 
dow with visible amazement pictured upon his plain 
features. The carriage and its occupants had hardly 
disappeared in the direction of the North River, 
than the journalist exclaimed : 

“Well, if I should have ever believed — ” 

“ So you think the man is off, do you ? ” queried 
the sarcastic voice of Mere Valzey; “you just wait, 
my boy; qui vivra verra . To-morrow may tell us 
another tale. But it’s getting Lite, I am going to 
close the place. It’s bedtime, my prince of re- 
porters.” 

The carriage that contained Herr and Frau 
Bolensk had soon reached the pier of the White 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 


277 


Star Line, where all was found in comparative soli- 
tude and silence. The coachman drove his vehicle 
under the curved nave of the huge construction, 
and stopped it opposite the canvas-enclosed gang- 
plank. A number of stewards in their blue pea- 
jackets and caps, came forward to help the travelers 
alight, and to take charge of their hand-luggage. 
Being told the number of the cabin, one of the men 
led the couple down the companion-way and along 
a fully lighted passage, to the large, double, outside 
cabin which had been engaged by Serge. He turned 
on the electric light, and allowed the passengers to 
examine the conveniences of the place. Just then, 
the voice of Herr Staffel was heard, a few feet away, 
calling for his liebe Fraulein Maroussia. 

“ I must dell ’er kood-pye, you know,” he was 
saying to the chief steward, who was acting as his 
guide; “ it vould nefer do vor me not to jake hands 
with my kreat ardisd.” 

Both Serge and his companion had come out of 
their room, upon hearing the “ Gaiety ” manager's 
loud exclamations. And, after the usual exchange 
of courteous wishes and regrets, the trio walked up- 
stairs, to open a last bottle of champagne in honor 
of the occasion. 

The splendid saloon of the Germanic , all rare 
wood paneling and delicate painting and gilding, 
was half filled with the odoriferous testimonials sent 
to the departing crowd by their remaining friends. 
Baskets of flowers, and emblematic devices designed 
and be-ribboned with a taste few cities in the world 
cultivate as fully as New York does, covered the 


278 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

long rows of tables. Here and there, groups were 
seated around trays loaded with glasses and bottles, 
and bursts of boisterous merriment, quickly subdued 
so as to obey the regulations of the ship, gave evi- 
dence of good fellowship. Toward a quiet corner 
at the further end of the room, plunged in a sort of 
semi-darkness, Serge led Maroussia and her ex-man- 
ager, and ordered at once a quart of Veuve Cliquot, 
white label, and three glasses. Just as the bottle 
had been opened and the glasses filled, Herr Staffel, 
who had been talking “ shop ” at a great rate with 
his late star, pulled out of his pocket a letter he 
had received that day, from his Berlin corre- 
spondent. 

“ Loog here, Fraulein,” he said, “I shust had a 
ledder vrom Herr Tuchhausen, and he sbeaks ov 
you in highest derms. You know, he kot me to en- 
kage you, and I wrode to him vat a sugcess you had 
mate ov it; now see vat he says,” and taking the 
girl by the hand he led her toward the middle of 
the room, directly under one of the half-lighted 
chandeliers. 

They were hardly a minute away from the table 
and the filled glasses, and when they returned, Serge 
stood awaiting them and nonchalantly rolling a ciga- 
rette he proposed smoking on deck, once the weari- 
some Staffel disposed of. The wine was merrily 
fizzing in the wide, shallow glasses, and a general 
Gesundheit having been drunk by the trio, down to 
the very last drop — a German usage that could not 
be overlooked without rudeness — Maroussia left 
the two men to finish the bottle, while she retired 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 279 

to her cabin after a last good-bye to old man 
Staffed. 

“ By the way,” she suddenly asked, retracing her 
steps, just as she was about leaving the saloon ; “ I 
suppose Ossip Stepanovitch has been taken care of 
as usual ? ” 

“ He has been,” Serge promptly answered. “In 
accordance with your desire, I had him brought over 
here, early in the evening, and I suppose he is now 
snugly ensconced in his comfortable quarters in the 
intermediate cabin. It is understood that he shall 
be at liberty to come to you when he needs some 
one to interpret his wishes. I gave him the number 
of the cabin.” 

“It is all right then ; good night again, gentle- 
men.” 

When, at last, the Duke was freed from Staffers 
cumbersome and vulgar company, he ascended to 
the promenade deck, and lighting his cigarette, be- 
gan walking up and down in his usual leisurely way. 
The night was clear and somewhat cold. Although 
the sunrise was only due after four o’clock, a light 
glimmer was already noticeable in the far-off hori- 
zon, away in the eastern region. Serge took out 
his watch, and had no trouble reading the time. It 
was almost three, already, and, on all sides, prepar- 
ations were being made for the early departure of 
the staunch vessel. Cabs rushed to the gangway ; 
stewards trod on each other’s heels, in their anxiety 
to help passengers from whom handsome tips might 
be expected ; cabin trunks were hauled up, and the 
ship’s hands were making everything ready for the 


280 cortlandt laster, capitalist 

final command. Serge had not divested himself of 
his great-coat, but had deposited downstairs his 
valise, satchel and bundle. He now leaned over the 
railing and gazed attentively in the faces of the in- 
coming passengers and their friends — few friends of 
course at such an early hour. But a few minutes 
more, and he would have executed the final move 
that was to cut him adrift from his abhorred past ; 
and, with an acute comprehension of all that had 
been and all that was to be, he felt a wave of tri- 
umphant joy arise from the inmost depths of his 
being. 

Downstairs lay Maroussia asleep ; yes, fast 
asleep, and for hours to come. He had taken good 
care of that, and, had she harbored the least suspi- 
cion, she might have found to her glass of cham- 
pagne a very strange taste indeed. For Serge had 
made good use of his minute of tete-a-tete with the 
glasses, in the saloon’s darkest corner. Yes, Ma- 
roussia was asleep. 

All there now remains for him to do is to walk 
down the gangway he had ascended an hour or so 
ago ; is to leave behind him, floating towards la 
belle Europe , this noble steamer, and his forsaken 
mistress, and this past life of his, the image of which 
she so hatefully represents. 

He has done it. Not a voice within himself or in 
the crowd around him utters a word of reproach, a 
word of warning. His feet rest again upon the firm 
land of liberty. He throws back a look, just one, 
toward the huge caravansary that is to face, in an 
hour, the perils of the deep ; and wending his steps 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 


281 


toward the street, he emerges from the pier into 
the open air — a free man. 

While Serge is thus walking on, in the direction 
of Tenth Street, with the firm tread of a man who 
has just taken a new lease of life, a shadow dodges 
his steps, keeping with surprising activity within 
the patches of inky darkness that underscore the 
. glaring rays from the huge electric lights. If the 
Duke had given a thought, during the day, to the 
possibility of his being thus placed under occult 
and indefatigable surveillance, he might perhaps 
have noticed this beardless man, dressed in the garb 
of a mechanic, and who has followed him afoot or 
in a cab to the Van Cleets, to the Banks, to Mere 
Valzy’s, to the Hoffman House, and finally to Mere 
Valzy’s again, and then to the White Star Line 
pier. In spite of the man’s close shave and his 
radical change of attire, it would have needed but 
one searching look for Serge to discover who this 
amateur detective really was. And with the re- 
membrance of the morning scene so fresh in his 
memory, he would have understood how and why 
Dyonisius Photiades had set himself as a spy upon 
his every act. 

Soon the Duke calls out to an empty cab to 
stop, and swinging himself behind the folded doors, 
cries to the driver : 

“To the Brunswick, and make haste, please.” 

Photiades has heard the order, and for the first time 
during the last fourteen hours, he allows the man he 
watches to drive away without his following him. 
For, with lightning rapidity, the priest has taken in 


282 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

the whole situation : Maroussia is to sail alone, de- 
serted at the very last minute by the man she loves 
so madly, and, with her on the high seas and his 
marriage with Zelia Van Cleet consummated, what 
has Serge d’lmeguy to fear? His crafty schemes 
have all succeeded, and the cup of his triumph is 
filled to the brim — 

Biting his lips in wild, boundless rage, Photiades * 
has now returned toward the White Star pier, tor- 
turing his brain to find some sort of weapon that 
may yet be wielded to strike and destroy the man 
he so bitterly hates. A sudden thought sends a 
flood of hope through his soul. If only he could 
communicate with Maroussia ! If he had time 
enough to let her know the treachery she is the piti- 
ful victim of — he might well leave the care of his 
vengeance to P"ate and to her! And now he rushes 
to the steamer, and pleads for admittance under all 
the pretexts his lying imagination supplies him with. 
His supplications are of no avail ; none but the 
passengers, tickets in hand, are now allowed on 
board, and their friends are coming down the gang- 
way in answer to the second warning bell. Ten 
minutes more, and the steamer is to be off, and with 
it the choicest bit of revenge Photiades’ fertile 
brain ever dreamed of. One more chance is left him, 
though, and hastily tearing a page from his memor- 
andum book, he writes, in a hand trembling with 
excitement : 

Maroussia, you are infamously deceived. Sergui Alexan- 
drovitch is not on board the steamer. He has left you, like the 
thief he is, and if you do not rush on land to tax him with his 


GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART 


283 


treachery, he will be married to-day at noon, in the Church of 

St. Margaret, to Zelia Van Cleet of East Forty-ninth 

Street. Come, do not lose a second. Conquer back the man 
who is to be your husband, or punish him dearly for his ras- 
cality. 

One second he hesitates. Shall he sign his name 
to this note? Yes, he shall. For once in his life 
his hatred triumphs over his cowardice. Down goes 
the name : 

Your true friend, 

Dyonisius Photiades. 

But, the scribbling hastily done, he has not yet 
made sure that Maroussia will get it, and get it in 
time. Around him, there is a general and final 
bustle that almost amounts to a tumult. He hails 
a steward, and, with a gold piece in his hand, begs 
him in despairing accents to carry this note at once, 
at once to Frau Bolensk in her cabin. “ It is a 
question of life and death,” he cries ; ‘|| r ou must go, go 
-• quick — take this money and run.” 

Tempted by the offer of the gold, the man is 
about to accept the mission. 

“ What’s the number of her cabin? ” he asks. 

“ The number — the number — ” stammers Pho- 
tiades ; “ I don’t know — I have forgotten.” 

“ Is that so?” the man says, looking suspiciously 
at the singular supplicant in his workman’s clothes. 
“ How the devil do you expect me to carry this 
note then ? There is no list issued yet — I tell 
you it’s downright impossible. Besides, in five min- 
utes, down goes the gang-plank.” 

“ One moment, one moment, please, please,” cries 
the priest. And then suddenly he looks up, and 


284 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

there, just against the railing, he sees Ossip Stepan- 
ovitch, staring at the crowd in his dull, drowsy way. 
Grabbing the steward by the arm, Photiades cries: 

“You see that little crippled fellow over there, 
with the long black hair, and that queer cap on?” 

“ Yes, I see him.” 

“Well, then, run for your life, and give him this 
note. I’ll cry out to him what he is to do with it. 
Go, keep the money, go — ” 

The man yields and runs up the gangway. As 
soon as he reaches Ossip, he shows him Photiades on 
the pier, and the two Russians’ eyes meet. Then 
Dyonisius cries out in a stentorian voice: 

“ For Maroussia, go, run for it, go.” 

The Gypsy has understood the message, given in 
his own familiar dialect, and moves away rapidly. 
The priest heaves a sigh of intense relief. Saved, he 
is saved, his vengeance is saved. Five minutes 
more, and Maroussia will be standing by his side — 

But five minutes’ time brings no Maroussia; and 
now the huge mass of steel has begun to shiver be- 
fore starting on its greyhound’s run. The gangway 
is pulled down ; the cables and chains are drawn in 
or thrown out ; the machinery slowly shakes off its 
lethargy of a week. Serene, superb, almost queenly, 
the good ship Germanic swings out of her berth. 

And as she glides down the river and gradually 
increases her speed, the last ray of hope vanishes 
from Dyonisius’ darkened soul. Here he stands, 
alone and baffled, the juicy fruit of his coveted ven- 
geance leaving only ashes in his mouth. 


XV 

MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 

The Germanic had hardly run more than a few 
hours on her eastward course when Zelia Van Cleet 
awoke from her last sleep in her room of virginal 
white, and saw, filtering through the closed blinds 
and heavy hangings, the sun of her marriage day. 
As she opened her eyes, the vivid sensation of the 
coming event drove from her brain the benumbing 
vestiges of slumber and set her whole mind working 
with surprising intensity over the strange and dolor- 
ous problem of her life. 

Yes, this was her marriage day.; the day when she 
would have to walk to the altar, in bridal garments 
and with orange blossoms on her brow and bosom, 
and pledge her faith to the man whose hand she had 
accepted. Young girls she knew had called this final 
surrender the highest blessing and delight that could 
ever come to them on earth ; they spoke with a mys- 
terious thrill in their altered voices, of the joy in 
reserve for the loving bride, and when their eyes 
looked up into those of the chosen one, they seemed 

(28s) 


286 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

suffused with liquid languor. How was it, then, she 
asked herself, with a tremor almost akin to fear, that 
no such feeling came to her, as the momentous hour 
was drawing nearer and nearer? How was it that 
her soul filled, instead, with a dreary melancholy no 
words could express ? 

She gazed back into the past, so near and yet so 
far, and passing her slender hand over her brow, she 
sank into a deep meditation. 

The last few days had been spent by her in the excit- 
ingand mind-diverting preparations for her ducal wed- 
ding and for her immediate departure from home, 
and from America. Hardly a minute had been 
allowed her, in the daytime, for that intimate con- 
verse with one’s self that reveals to us the true por- 
tent of our actions. At night, the physical fatigue 
resulting from such unusual exertions left her too 
much exhausted to even attempt any self-investiga- 
tion. And so it had come to pass that the dawn of 
her last day of maidenhood found her so utterly 
unprepared to answer this grave and disconcerting 
question: “ What am I, in truth, marrying for?” 
And yet the ten months just elapsed had truly trans- 
formed the frail, immature girlie, who looked so 
ingenuously lovely as the “ Rose of Satzuma,” into 
a full-fledged and full-willed woman, with flesh and 
blood and nerves quivering under the impress of love, 
sorrow and pride. 

That summer-night drive through the Bois de 
Boulogne, in the large open barouche that carried 
her back home to the Rue de Balzac, with her father 
asleep by her side, and Lancelot Van Rassel whis- 


MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 287 

pering in her ears the first words of passionate woo- 
ing she had ever heard — it seemed as if it had taken 
place but yesterday. Only, instead of the delight 
fully submissive, but withal irresponsively girlish 
sensations that had constituted that night the sum 
total of her bliss, the recollection of this duetto 
d'amore, so short and never repeated, now sent 
through her veins a thrill of unwittingly sensuous 
regret. She had seen Lancelot many times since, 
but never had he seemed able to renew the chain of 
that brief felicity ; and, their rapid understanding 
having been held by the vigilant mother to have, 
for a time at least, no binding virtue, it had seemed 
to lose, month after month, its clear and rapturous 
meaning. Still, an attachment of sterling worth had 
been gradually replacing, in the young girl’s heart, 
the vague acquiescence of the first hour, *and she 
would have reached, after the severe schooling of 
society life, the full stature and harmonious devel- 
opment of the true and pure young matron, had not 
a thunderbolt from what she thought the clear- 
est and most heaven-blessed sky, shattered into a 
thousand fragments her pride in herself and her 
trust in her lover. 

And then the combat of her life had begun — a 
silent, resolute, decisive struggle, for the fighting of 
which she had called to her help that undaunted 
intrepidity she had doubtless inherited from her 
mother. When the revelation of the wretched situa- 
tion the inordinate ambition of her parent and the 
degrading purpose of Cortlandt Laster had placed 
her in, had come to her, in that awfully sudden and 


288 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

cruel manner, she had staggered under the blow. 
For a moment, for several days even, it seemed to 
her as if the world — her world — had met with an 
irretrievable catastrophe, and, in that wreck of her 
good name, the knowledge of which had so brutally 
smitten her in the face, she had stretched her arms 
appealingly for a succor that came not. At least it 
was not Love who answered her passionate en- 
treaties ; Love had veiled his eyes, not to witness 
her shame. Lancelot, his very soul embittered by 
what he must believe full evidence of her worthless- 
ness, had totally disappeared from her darkened 
horizon. Thus, brooding over a sense of keen and 
unforgettable injury, Zelia had steeled herself, by a 
mighty effort, against the world’s harsh judgment, 
and resolved to face the worst and challenge Fate’s 
final verdict. 

It was then that she had met Serge d’lmeguy, 
and had accepted, with an intense feeling of relief 
and even of unexpressed gratitude, the attentions 
lavished upon her, with a purpose so quickly evi- 
dent, by the stately and attractive Russian noble- 
man. And her gratitude was not without cause, for 
she had not failed to notice how the singular prefer- 
ence manifested toward her by this new and 
conspicuous favorite of uppertendom had almost 
restored to her — and to her mother as a necessary 
consequence — the outward regard of the social ma- 
jority. The threatened ostracism not having had 
time to show itself in acts, the select few who think 
themselves the leaders of New York society had not 
to “eat humble pie” to give up their well settled 


MRS. VAN CLEETS DAY OF TRIUMPH 289 

plans of mercilessly tabooing the Van Cleets. Even 
the revelation of the Duke of Scarborough to Mrs. 
Eddie Laster, anent Lady Mabel Fitz-Hugh’s 
want of fortune, which reduced to ashes the fiction 
of the Van Cleet’s wealth being inherited from her, 
remained ineffective, except among the immediate 
friends of the Laster ladies who preserved a mark- 
edly distant attitude toward those “ objectionable 
people.” But if the mere rumor of a possible en- 
gagement between Zelia and Serge had sufficed to 
silence the voice of scandal, the official announce- 
ment of the ducal marriage transformed this mo- 
mentary lull in the menacing situation into a 
gushing outburst of congratulations from the nine- 
teen-twentieths of what is generally known as 
Gotham’s inner circle. And thus had been realized 
Cortlandt’s prophesy that Zelia’s great marriage 
would bring back to the Van Cleets almost every 
one of the deserters of a week. 

Circumstances had rendered it so clearly desirable 
for all parties concerned that the projected alliance 
should receive the blessings of the church, and the 
consequent legal consecration, as early as possible, 
that the receipt of the imaginary cablegram calling 
Duke d’Im£guy back to Russia, “ by order of the 
Czar,” had not been unwelcomed, even by Zelia. 

To a great extent, she had felt herself again, when 
the cordiality she had been accustomed to meet with 
everywhere, during the last winter, had returned to 
her with accrued interest. She could not help, 
though, gazing sometimes wistfully into the eyes of 
some of her acquaintances to try and discover any 

Cortlandt — 19 


29O CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

faint trace of that awful suspicion she knew them to 
have harbored against her ; but the smiles of all 
now seemed genuine enough, and certainly the 
“ leading girls ” of the season had shown themselves 
more than ready to take their places among her 
bridesmaids. 

Her feelings toward Serge, after reaching a cer- 
tain degree of mutual and pleasant sympathy, had 
suddenly seemed to come to a standstill, and even 
to gradually assume a more formal and matter-of- 
fact coloring. His courtship was stamped with the 
same uniform affability and studiously observed 
grace, but his eyes when resting upon her did not 
impress her in the least like those of a lover, but 
rather like those of a master, quietly coming into 
his own. She was almost afraid to confess to herself 
that they denoted nothing except a polite and gen- 
tlemanly expressed indifference. If such was, in 
truth, the impression she produced upon him, why, in 
the name of heaven, had he pushed his suit to the 
final issue that was to make them one before God 
and men ? 

No doubt that, had Zelia been called upon to 
marry the Duke, just as her years of monotonous 
— and essentially French — life in Tours were coming 
to a close, she would have accepted her fate with 
the glad smile of blind ignorance. But the Lance- 
lot incident, followed by a series of triumphs in 
the free atmosphere of a New York season and end- 
ing with that awful awakening and Cortlandt Las- 
ter’s bold and passionate entreaties, had hastened 
the education of her heart as well as that of her 


MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 2gi 

mind, and opened to her such vistas as the carefully 
tutored girl in the dull little Touraine city had never 
had the vaguest suspicion of. And if the wooer of 
yesterday, who was to be the husband of to-day, had 
proved unable to either transport her soul into the 
sphere of love’s delights, or even deaden the gnaw- 
ing recollection of a bliss that had slipped away 
from her grasp, she could indeed ask herself, as she 
lay silent and motionless in the narrow bed, all lace, 
ruffled muslin and guipure , “ what was she marrying 
him for? ” 

Just then, as if in answer to this question, repeated 
over and over again with increasing anguish, 
a slight knock was heard at the door that led 
into her mother’s chamber, and without awaiting a 
response, Mrs. Van Cleet walked in, softly treading 
upon the thickly carpeted floor. Noticing the eyes 
of Zelia wide open, she exclaimed at once, turning 
to the door : 

“ Walk in, Marie, our .child is awake ! ” 

And Mary, the dear old French servant the ladies 
had kept with them ever since they had first settled 
in Touraine, entered, holding up in triumph what 
proved to be a little giant of a lilac bush, absolutely 
covered with clusters of white blossoms. 

“ Here is Prince Charming’s 'offering to his little 
bride!” Mrs. Van Cleet cried exultingly ; “ and 
there is a note with it, too, my darling. Let me 
pull the curtains apart that you may read it.” 

With a smile lighting up her eyes and a slight 
flush of pleased surprise coloring her face, Zelia 
sat up, and tore the square envelope with its tiny 


292 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

ducal coronet stamped in gold on the back. There 
were only three lines ; they read : 

These white blossoms are like pure snowflakes from my dear 
Russia, laid at the feet of my beautiful little Duchess 

by her obedient slave, 

Serge d’I. 

This homage had in it so much of that genuine 
delicacy true love only inspires, that it seemed as if 
half the heavy load weighing upon poor Zelia’s heart 
had been magically removed. She breathed deep, 
and taking her mother’s head between her hands, 
she kissed it tenderly, once, twice, thrice, whisper- 
ing those little adoring words too sacred to be 
reproduced in writing. 

“ Now, you have to get up, baby,” cried Mrs. 
Van Cleet. “ Think of it, it is almost nine o’clock, 
and we leave here at half-past eleven sharp. Marie 
has everything ready for you — ” 

If her daughter had thus been subjected to the 
torments of incertitude, following closely the most 
poignant emotion of her young existence, Mrs. Van 
Cleet, on the contrary, had only known of late the 
intense delights of success, long prepared, fiercely 
fought for, and secured by means of inexhaustible 
ingenuity, aided by indomitable pluck. Just as 
everything she had aimed at, since Zelia’s early girl- 
hood, had been wrenched from her grasp through 
an appallingly sudden catastrophe, a dens ex machina 
had rescued her from the throes of social death. 
To speak in less figurative language, the advent of 
Duke Serge d’lmeguy, concerning the past life of 
whom Cortlandt Laster had of course kept perfectly 


MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 293 

silent, had given a tangible form to the very bright- 
est of her dreams. He was a grand seigneur , a man 
of fine presence, a wealthy grandee, and he held in 
the palm of his hand the keys to that worldly Ely- 
sium to adorn which the mother had so minutely 
prepared her offspring. 

Thus it had happened that her very exultation, 
much increased by the return to the fold of her 
wavering acquaintances, had caused the prudent old 
lady to neglect those simple precautions she would 
have declared so essential under any other circum- 
stances. For the Duke’s standing she had willingly 
accepted Herbert Wilson as sole voucher; for his 
financial position she had implicitly trusted the 
man’s own declaration that his fortune was fully en 
rapport with his high rank in his country’s nobility. 
The short time that had elapsed between the day 
when Serge d’lmeguy’s attentions to Zelia had 
become significant and the date fixed for the mar- 
riage would hardly have allowed of any inquiry being 
made in Europe. Besides, no thought of the kind 
had even crossed Mrs. Van Cleet’s mind, and the 
handsome presents lavished by the Duke upon his 
fiancee would have been, if necessary, conclusive evi- 
dence that his means were ample and in keeping with 
his name and standing. 

Another stroke of good fortune had, moreover, 
filled to the brim Mrs. Van Cleet’s cup of unalloyed 
satisfaction. A last interview had taken place, the 
night before, between her and Cortlandt Laster, at 
this gentleman’s request. The doors of the steel safe 


294 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

had swung once more upon their well-oiled hinges 
and granted her admittance, near midnight, within 
Laster’s own office. Once in his presence, she would 
have given vent to her expressions of rapturous grat- 
itude, had she not noticed upon the capitalist’s fea- 
tures an expression she had never seen there before. 
He looked older and sterner ; nor was there any trace 
of those bright spirits and pleasant ways he had 
always liked to display in his conversation with 
ladies. A scowl had settled on his brow, and his 
words were few and to the point. 

“ Mrs. Van Cleet,” he said, after he had motioned 
her to an armchair, without himself moving from his 
seat ; “ this adventure we embarked in together 
just ten months ago, is now coming to an end. Are 
you satisfied with its final issue?” 

She looked up, her enthusiastic mood strangely 
cooled off ; still she answered unhesitatingly : 

“ I am absolutely satisfied, my dear Mr. Laster. 
Do you not feel the same way?” 

“What I feel, Mrs. Van Cleet, has nothing to do 
in the matter,” was the curt reply ; “ so, now that you 
have assured me in a precise way that you are pleased 
to see your daughter marry Duke Serge d’Im£guy, 
I shall proceed to business.” 

“ To business ? ” 

“Yes; but it is nothing that you need apprehend. 
On the contrary, I might add ; for I am here to 
1 close the deal,’ as they say in Wall Street, and to 
settle all accounts to the last dollar.” 

“But, my dear Mr. Laster, there is no — ” 


MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 295 

“ I ask permission to interrupt you, Mrs. Van 
Cleet. You’ll know at once what I mean. I propose 
to provide for you and the Doctor.” 

“ For me and the Doctor! ” cried the amazed ma- 
tron; “ but we are going to Europe shortly, to join 
our daughter! Both herself and the Duke have in- 
sisted that we should come over and live upon one 
of the Duke’s estates in Southern Russia ; so that 
there is really no need — ” 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Van Cleet, there is always need 
of money to keep one independent — even of a 
wealthy son-in-law — ” There was no sneer in the 
speaker’s tone of voice, for he had resolved to keep 
the secret to the end. He continued : “ I have had 
prepared a transfer of the house you reside in, from 
the nominal owner’s name to those of the Doctor 
and yourself, jointly. A fair price has been inserted 
in the deed as having been paid for it, so that the 
public records shall prove it to be a legitimate trans- 
action. And now, I hand you that deed, and with 
it, coupon bonds of the United States Government 
that will produce you a yearly income of ten thou- 
sand a year — ” 

“ Ten thousand a year, my dear Mr. Laster ! ” 
cried the old lady, in such bewilderment that she 
forgot the wound such a gift, with such , a motive 
behind it, was supposed to inflict upon her pride : 
“ but this is princely ! ” 

“ Neither a Prince’s nor a Duke’s gift, Mrs. Van 
Cleet; merely an American gentleman’s squaring of ac- 
counts. Some of us are not all bad , you see. Or, when 
they are, they know how and when to pay for it.” 


296 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

Before she had time to answer him, either in 
anger or in loud gratitude, he had risen from his 
seat, handed the bundle of documents and securities 
to his visitor and quietly moved toward the secret 
exit. As he reached the giant safe, he said, touch- 
ing it with the tip of his finger: 

“ This thing is played out, Mrs. Van Cleet ; and 
so am I — I wish you a good night. ” 

He bowed deep, his eyes lowered to the floor, 
and she passed him on her way out, so upset, so 
awed even by this strange attitude of his that she 
dared not answer a word. 

The door closed behind her back with a click, 
and she knew that she had seen the last of Cort- 
landt Laster’s private office, and perhaps, even, of 
Cortlandt Laster himself. 

Now she stood in her own room, a few steps 
from the connecting closet, the draperies of which 
hid so well the mysterious opening, and, for a min- 
ute, she felt dazed as if coming out of dreamland. 
Then her eyes fell upon the thick bundle her right 
hand grasped nervously, and every detail of this 
short scene passed like a flash before her mental 
vision. But it was neither wrath, nor shame, nor 
the slightest pang of remorse, that quickened the 
beating of her heart — when she had decided to play 
this desperate game with her daughter’s ruin or 
triumph as its ultimate goal, she had made away 
with such petty emotions — no, the fire that flew 
through her veins was that delicious fever known to 
conquerors ; the intense, passionate, criminal yearn- 
ing of her life had had its prayer granted to the full, 


MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 297 

and out of this room of Laster’s which had seen her, 
but a few weeks ago, so fearfully crushed under the 
weight of defeat, she emerged to-night with the 
flush of victory — final, durable, ironbound victory — 
on her maternal brow. If that old Machiavelian 
proverb “ The end justifies the means,” had any 
meaning in the good English tongue, it proclaimed 
that her arts and craft and deceit had done for her 
adored child what no honesty of purpose and action 
could have ever realized. And if she cared not for 
the “ means ” when in the heat of the fight, was it 
when the spoils were being gathered, that she would 
bestow upon them a thought? 

The mother’s — the good mother’s — sleep was 
easy and sweet. She felt her task accomplished, 
the prize awarded her by Fate could not be 
snatched away from her grasp. Not a cloud passed, 
that night, over the spirit of her dream. 

The next morning was a morning of such bustle 
and confusion as is always met with on days like 
this. Many details had to be attended to that had 
been imprudently postponed until the last hours 
before the great event. A few Georgia friends stay- 
ing in the house tried to render themselves useful, 
but failed ; the over-excited servants ran about the 
house aimlessly ; number of tradespeople dropped 
in, out of sheer curiosity, and proffered their serv- 
ices in and out of time ; finally as the hour to pre- 
pare for church approached, a few of the leading 
guests called, in an informal way, asking if they 
might be of any assistance. Herbert Wilson, the 


298 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

bridegroom's best man, was there, of course, and 
sent word that he had supervised the church ar- 
rangements, and that it “ would all go swimmingly.” 
Then the bridesmaids arrived, one after the other, 
in their dainty, electric-blue gowns, and with the 
pretty present from the bride, a locket of white 
enamelled gold with an I ducally coroneted in dark 
blue relief, half hidden among the ruffles around 
the neck. Bella Vane was of course the leader of 
the bridesmaids, and two tiny beauties, a curly boy 
of eight and a sweet girlie of six, were to act as 
page and maid of honor to Madame la Duchesse that 
was to be. 

The girls had just been told that they might go 
upstairs and gaze upon the bride in her splendor, 
when the butler had Mrs. Van Cleet called out of 
her daughter’s room. He insisted so much, that 
Marie finally consented to disturb her mistress, who 
came to the landing, with pins in her hands, and a 
rather cross expression on her face. 

“What is it, James?” she asked ; “ I should have 
thought you intelligent enough not to insist upon 
seeing me, just now.” 

“ I hope madam will excuse me, but there is 
downstairs a man who says he has to speak to 
madam at once, and will take no denial.” 

“ What is he like ? Does he say what he comes 
for?” 

“ He looks like a workingman out of work ; and 
I could not get him to say what he wanted. He only 
repeated over and over again that madam would 
regret not to see him.” 


MRS. VAN CLEET’S DAY OF TRIUMPH 299 

“Some beggar, I suppose. They flock in such 
quantities in one’s house, on such days as this ! 
Send him away, James — or rather,” and she took 
out a note from a purse in her pocket, “ give him 
these five dollars. Nobody is to go from here empty- 
handed to-day. Now go, and let us know as soon as 
the carriages arrive. We must start at twenty min- 
utes to twelve, to the clock.” 

Nothing more was heard from the obstinate 
petitioner downstairs until the procession began to 
move toward the street, the blushing, but delightfully 
charming bride, leaning upon the old Doctor’s 
arm. 

The weather was still unsettled and windy, and a 
few May showers had wetted the broad awning that 
reached from the door to the curb. Nevertheless 
the neighboring windows and stoops were crowded 
with women and children, all anxious to get “ a 
glimpse of the bride.” Even in the street itself, 
around the carriages, and dangerously near to the 
pawing horses, urchins, sundry street beggars, and a 
number of servant girls from two or three blocks 
away, jostled each other, crying, laughing, and hur- 
rahing. 

In the first carriage sat Zelia, her mother and the 
Doctor, the seat in front of the bride having been 
left free for her dress to be properly disposed of. 
As soon as the beaming trio had taken their places, 
the footman closed the door with a bang and jumped 
on the box. At that very minute, a man, closely 
shaven, but otherwise bedraggled and unkempt, 
with his workingman’s clothes ill-fitting upon his 


300 CORTLANDT RASTER, CAPITALIST 

fat person, and a sinister expression hovering over 
his unprepossessing features, roughly elbowed his 
way through the serried ranks of the bystanders, 
and reaching the bride’s carriage, threw a closed, 
unaddressed envelope into Mrs. Van Cleet’s lap. 

“ Read, read now,” he said in a hoarse whisper, 
but with a strikingly foreign accent. 

The old lady, who had started back, when con- 
fronted with the strange figure and the half-threaten- 
ing gesture, seized the paper between her daintily 
gloved fingers, and without giving a thought to its 
contents, tossed it out in the mud, crying almost 
hysterically : 

“ Drive on, quick ! why don’t we start ? ” 

Almost at once the barouche moved onward, and 
Mrs. Van Cleet heaved a sigh of intense relief. 

“ Who would think those beggars so awfully 
bold ? ” she said. 

But the beggar who now leaned over, with a scowl 
of furious disappointment on his face, and picked up 
from under the wheels his discarded message, was 
not an every-day beggar, by any means. 

It was none other than Dyonisius Photiades, 
frustrated in his ultimate attempt to ruin his late 
master's life. 


XVT 

maroussia’s wedding gift 

The cabin the Duke had secured on board the 
Germanic was a large outside room, with two super- 
posed berths, and, below the port-hole, 'a broad sofa- 
like, velvet-covered arrangement, often used as a 
bed. Upon its cushions, Maroussia stretched her- 
self wearily, as she came down from bidding good- 
bye to her manager. In a few minutes, she thought, 
Sergui would be here to help her dispose their 
belongings about the restricted apartment. But, 
almost at once, a strange drowsiness stole over her, 
and she fell into a deep, heavy sleep, without even 
having had time to remove her outer wraps and her 
traveling cap. 

********** 
When she woke up, or rather when she felt her- 
self returning to consciousness through what she 
vaguely understood to be the persistent efforts of 
some people around her, the first sensation she 
clearly perceived was the rumbling noise of the re- 
volving shaft. She knew now where she was, and 
. (301) 


302 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

the first look of her eyes, when she managed to 
raise her heavily-weighted lids, confirmed the testi- 
mony of her ears. It was full daylight now, and 
the ship had left her pier. 

“She is coming to! she is coming to!” aloud 
cheery voice exclaimed, quite close to her. The 
speaker, a buxom, middle-aged woman, in the trim, 
regulation attire of a steamer stewardess, was bend- 
ing over her, and pressing against her face a hand- 
kerchief saturated with some sort of pungent liquid. 
Close by, a stout gentleman in a blue coat and a 
laced cap — evidently the ship Doctor — held in his 
hand a glass and was just pouring into it a few 
drops from a small phial. And, near the door, in 
his usual attitude of half stupidity, half- oriental 
dreaminess, mingled though, this time, with signs of 
incipient desolation, Maroussia recognized at once, 
her tambourine player and fellow-Gypsy, Ossip 
Stepanovitch. 

“ Now that she has overcome this extraordinary 
fit of lassitude/’ the Doctor was heard to say ; “ I 
think we had better leave the lady altogether to 
your motherly care, Mrs. Jones; that is, until her 
husband steps down — ’ 

“My husband!” moaned Maroussia, half slum- 
bering yet ; “ my husband ! where is my husband ? ” 

“ Oh ! do not worry, my dear young lady,” 
answered kind Mrs. Jones’ soothing voice; “the 
gentleman is doubtless upstairs, gazing at the fine 
scenery as we steam through the bay ; he does not 
know that we discovered you to be ill, and there- 
fore — ” 


maroussia's wedding gift 


303 


But the tired girl had thrown herself back upon 
the cushion, shaking her head discouragingly, to 
intimate that all this was lost to her. The Doctor, 
who happened to know a few words of German, and 
who had been informed of the name under which 
his patient was registered on the passenger’s list, re- 
peated the reassuring words of the stewardess in a 
language Frau Bolensk could comprehend ; he 
added : 

“You have evidently been sleeping a very unusual 
kind of sleep, madam ; it almost amounted to a 
syncope ; so I should not advise your lying down 
here any longer. When Mrs. Jones will have at- 
tended to your needs, I think you had better come 
upstairs, and sit down in the open air. It will make 
you all right again very soon.” 

“ The fact is,” the stewardess said, “ that I never 
saw such a heavy sleep ; the lady had almost ceased 
to breathe, and if this young fellow there, who had 
tried to wake her up for quite awhile, had not 
raised an alarm just as we were steaming out into 
the river — ” 

But Ossip was now coming forward with a faint 
gleam of relief lighting up his stolid face. The Doc- 
tor, being called outside, slipped away hurriedly, and 
good Mrs. Jones busied herself about the cabin, 
hunting for the lady’s toilet articles. In his hand, 
the Tzigane dwarf held a crumpled paper. With a 
silent gesture, he extended it to his mistress. 

“ That Russian priest gave me this for you,” he 
said, in his guttural voice. 

As if the note had contained a hidden torpedo, 


304 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

its touch brought Maroussia to her feet, while her 
eyes, now fully awakened and flaming, plunged into 
the tambourine player’s opium-dulled pupils. Then, 
with a brusque, mechanical movement, she opened 
the scrap of paper, and in less time than it takes a 
thunderbolt to strike and shatter a towering build- 
ing, she had read it all and knew — 

Drugged, forsaken, entrapped, and the man she 
had rescued, fed, pampered with her love and money, 
to whom, for five long years, every breath of her 
body, every yearning of her soul had gone as to the 
only God she knew and worshiped, had done this 
black and damnable deed ! A pallor akin to death 
spread over her sombre face, and gave it a ghastly 
hue one only sees in the agonies of a nightmare ; her 
eyes sank suddenly and filled with a glare of terrific 
fury ; her hands opened and closed like the claws of 
a panther robbed of her young, and, out of her 
blanched lips, a curse, the anathema her race is said 
to hurl as a blight at its eternal enemy — t*he Chris- 
tian — was hissed in a whisper that made Ossip shud- 
der and look back for a retreat. 

The stewardess had turned round, wondering. 
Her patient, so limp and so drowsy, but a minute 
ago, was now standing before her in the rigid majesty 
of an Egyptian statue, without a word in her mouth, 
but with such a strange, such a terrible face, such a 
look that saw nothing, such an expression of incred- 
ible rage. Had the lady suddenly turned a raving 
maniac? was the woman’s instantaneous thought; 
and cautiously moving to the door, she said in a low, 
awed voice : 


maroussia’s wedding gift 305 

“ The Doctor ! ” 

The word seemed to break the spell. Maroussia’s 
eyes looked down upon her surroundings ; the cabin 
state-room with her things, his things, Ossip gazing 
fixedly, too terrified even to move, the stewardess 
walking into the passage-way and calling out now, in 
loud, commanding tones : 

“ The Doctor, fetch the Doctor, somebody ; quick ; 
lady taken suddenly ill — ” Hurried steps were 
heard, rushing doubtless in search of medical help ; 
then, for a moment, there was a sort of lull ; in dazed 
affright, Ossip also had fled, and in her cabin, their 
cabin, the Gypsy dancer was left alone. 

Not inactive, though, or falling into a swoon, like 
some wretched weakling, or sobbing her wrath away 
like a love-sick maiden, or heaping insults upon the 
head of the infamous deserter — no indeed, Maroussia 
was not made of such clay. A thought had flashed 
through her brain : “ It might all be explained yet, 
there was surely some message for her, from him, 
somewhere in this room.” In an instant, she had 
thrown open the Duke’s abandoned things, scattered 
about the place, piling upon the lower berth the 
articles she snatched from satchel and bag. But if 
she found a roll of banknotes, visiting cards, toilet 
articles, even a small ivory-handled revolver he had 
carried about for years, and a pocket-book she had 
bought for him herself, not a letter, not even a line 
addressed to her could she discover in this feverish 
and yet close inspection that threw half the cabin 
into utter confusion. No, there was nothing — noth- 
ing. Like a sneak-thief stealing away through the 

Cortlandt — 20 


306 cortlandt laster, capitalist 

night, his abject deed accomplished, he had not left 
behind him a word, or token, or sign — nothing, 
nothing ! 

Voices were heard again, approaching. With 
lightning-like intuition, the girl realized what impres- 
sion the stewardess had carried away from the cabin . 
Surely the woman thought her deranged, insane, 
mad ; she was coming back with full assistance to 
place her under restraint, perhaps to lock her up in 
the cabin, like a crazy creature. No, no, that should 
not be ; she would jump overboard first; and with a 
rush, that deprived her not of her instinctive judg- 
ment of immediate necessities, she seized Serge’s 
little satchel, threw back into it pocket-book, money, 
revolver, and passing the shoulder strap over her head 
yet covered with its traveling-cap, she emerged into 
the passage, and swift as a deer, ran to the further 
end, to the companionway, to the open air — 

And as she looked out, expecting her gaze to 
meet nothing but water — the treacherous water, 
stretching its abyssmal waste between her and her 
cowardly betrayer — she saw instead, yes, she saw, to 
the right and to the left, looming up, distinct, and 
near — land ! 

It was the outer bay, superb under the dazzling 
May sun. Cautiously yet, at half-speed only, the 
steamer was ploughing its way through the channel, 
a pilot in hi$ homely civilian clothes standing guard 
beside the captain on the bridge over there, his 
swallow-like boat attached to the flanks of the 
friendly giant it was to escort out of danger’s 
way. 


MAROUSSIA'S WEDDING GIFT 307 

And just then, a steward rushed past Maroussia, 
crying at the top of his voice : 

“ More letters to go back by the pilot boat ? ” 

Go back ! a boat was going back ! Back to the 
land over there, back to New York, back to him! 
If it did, why not she? 

A hand touched her shoulder. She started. 
Could it be Serge? No, it was the Doctor. By a 
mighty effort that told upon her, she quieted down 
at once, and said in German : 

“You see, Herr Doctor, here I am, following 
your prescription. The sea breeze has made me 
all right again.” 

He looked at her, with an almost comical surprise 
pictured upon his chubby features. Then he stam- 
mered : 

“ So — you are here — and well. This crazy creature 
downstairs came to me, in a fearful hurry, saying — ” 

“ Oh ! I know,”, interrupted the dancer, whose 
plans had been settled with that extraordinary pre- 
cision passion alone inspires ; “ the dear woman 
thought I was going to be ill, very ill, because I 
just received some terrible news — not terrible, but 
awfully unpleasant. Think of it, Herr Doctor, my 
husband missed the boat! ” 

“You don’t mean it,” cried the Doctor, fully 
reassured, now, and desirous to look as sympathetic 
as his duties on board commanded him to be. 

“Yes, Doctor; just at the last minute, he was 
called out on the pier and — and — ” 

“ The boat steamed away without him ! oh, that’s 
too bad, I declare — too bad. I only wish I could do 


308 cortlandt laster, capitalist 


something. Of course he’ll be coming by the next 
steamer?” * 

“ But Doctor, that won’t do — I can’t think of 
sailing alone this way — I must join him at once — ” 
“ Join him, my dear Frau Bolensk ! I don’t see 
how you could. We are off now for good.” 

“ The steamer is, but the pilot boat is not — ” 

“ Of course not, but what has this to do with the 
matter? ” 

“It has everything to do, Herr Doctor; I am 
going back in that boat.” 

“ But it’s impossible,” cried . the Doctor ; “ it’s 
never allowed, under any circumstances ; passengers 
are to be landed either at Queenstown or Liverpool ; 
you are here under the British flag, remember, and 
the company’s rules are law.” 

“ But I tell you, I must" said Maroussia, now 
speaking almost into the Doctor’s ear ; “ don’t you 
see that it’s a question of life or death ? Listen : 
my husband did not miss the boat, he stepped out 
before it sailed — and deserted me ! ” 

“ What ! ” cried the Doctor, “ deserted you ? ” 
“Yes,” was the stern answer; “and find him 
back I must — or die.” 

“ It is a fearful trial, my poor Frau Bolensk,” 
murmured the Doctor as soothingly as he could — 
he had met with a similar case before, he thought 
— “ a fearful trial, but — ” 

“ There is no 4 but,’ ” imperiously commanded 
Maroussia ; “ Doctor, you’ll have to go at once to 
the Captain, and tell him I must leave. See, see,” 
she exclaimed excitedly, “ the pilot is shaking hands 


maroussia's wedding gift 309 

with him ; in a moment he’ll be gone ; run, man, 
run for your life, run for mine — ” 

She pushed him forward with such force that the 
unfortunate fellow had to submit to her reckless 
will. 

“ After all,” he thought, “ I’ll make a pretense of 
going to the Captain, and, in the meantime, the 
little firebrand will cool down somewhat.” But as 
he saw her fixing her eyes with such intensity 
upon his retreating form, he thought it safer, for 
his future peace, to, at least, carry her urgent 
message to the comtnanding officer. Of course the 
answer was a curt “ no,” to be transmitted to the 
“ poor creature with the Captain’s regrets.” In the 
meantime the pilot had come down from the bridge 
and was wending his way toward the ladder, over 
the side of the steamer, shaking hands, right and 
left, with officers and acquaintances, and distribut- 
ing cheerily his “ a good trip to you,” and “ a happy 
return.” 

Concealing herself as best she could, but stealthily 
approaching the vicinity of the departing pilot, 
Maroussia had managed to follow every detail of 
the interview between Doctor and Captain. She 
had distinctly seen the latter’s negative gesture, 
and the peremptory dismissal of the former by his 
superior officer. Her fate was sealed ; they would 
never allow her to go — 

Closer and closer to the ship’s side, and to the 
place where hangs the ladder that connects the 
steamer with his boat, walks the pilot. Nearer and 
nearer to him, the Gypsy dancer glides, unperceived 


310 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

in the general excitement. A last good-bye, a 
cheer, a wave of his hat, and the man steps over- 
board, and descends leisurely along the rungs of the 
rope-ladder. 

He has hardly set foot on his boat, however, 
when, with a bound as airy as that of an elf, Ma- 
roussia has jumped to the place he just left, and 
lets herself drop with lightning rapidity along the 
same rope-ladder. A second more, and she has set 
foot, undaunted and unaided, upon the deck of the 
swift schooner. A great outcry, a rush of the 
crowd to the ship’s bulwark, a hurrah of amazed 
admiration at such unheard-of pluck, an un- 
heeded protest from the Captain, and the haw- 
ser is parted. No. 13 Pilot Boat drops astern of 
its huge friend, and dances a gleeful breakdown 
upon the swash whipped into foam by the steamer’s 
screw. 

At full speed now, the greyhound Germanic has 
entered her course toward the old world ; and, on 
the clean-cut sail-boat she leaves behind, stands, 
silently and impressively triumphant, Maroussia la 
Juwa, on her way back to New York. 

There are many polyglots among the choice crews 
of those, valiant little vessels, the New York Pilot 
Boats. After they had recovered from their amaze- 
ment, the new companions of the Tzigane dancer 
found no trouble in communicating with her; and 
from her shoulder hung a satchel full of excellent 
reasons for their yielding to her curtly expressed 
wish : to touch land in the shortest possible time. 


maroussia’s wedding gift 31 1 

Out of Serge’s roll of greenbacks she picked up a 
couple of hundred dollar notes, and placed them in 
the hand of the skipper. 

“ There ! ” she said, pointing to the eastern coast, 
that which seemed to her inexperienced eye the 
nearest and most easily reached. It so happened 
that she was right after all, and that the sea breeze 
was strong enough to carry back to the Long Island 
shore Pilot Boat No. 13, and its strangely acquired 
passenger. Fully indemnified for the delay in their 
projected cruise, the veteran sailors turned their 
whole attention to earning their fee honestly, and, 
with the taciturnity of old salts who are proudly 
foreign to landlubbers’ inquisitiveness, gave to their 
guest a seat on a pile of coats and blankets, and left 
her to her dark meditations. 

For the short-lived exultation of her extraordinary 
escape had now vanished, and the dread truth was 
again staring her in the face. She had torn her 
bonds asunder, and held again her fate, and his fate, 
in her hands, but — With feverish haste, she pulled 
out her watch — a pretty, tiny toy he had bought her 
in Paris one night that baccara had smiled upon 
him. It had not run down, thank heaven, and it 
told her that it was but nine o’clock yet. And did 
not the note speak of noon as the hour fixed 
for the marriage? She looked about for the scrap 
of paper and found it not. But how well she knew 
every syllable scribbled on it by Photiades ! Twelve 
o’clock, St. Margaret ! 

“ How long before we touch land, Captain ?” she 
asks of a weatherbeaten pilot who is walking the 


312 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

deck in grave silence puffing at a short, black pipe. 
She speaks and he answers her, in German. 

“Not more than an hour, I reckon, if the wind 
holds out/’ 

Resuming her absorbed, unwittingly tragic atti- 
tude, Maroussia sits there without a word, without 
a change in her set features, counting with an 
anguish that drives every other thought out of her 
dazed brain, the minutes of her imprisonment. A 
warm, brief shower threatens to wet her through ; 
she notices it not, and nods in a vague manner, 
refusing an offer to take refuge in the cabin. Soon 
the sun, warm and brilliant, comes out again and 
dries her wraps and the deck and the sails. A fresh 
breeze springs up, and sweeps the frail craft along 
with it. The piers and buildings of Coney Island, 
with their summer bunting gaily flying from mast- 
heads and roofs, are getting closer and closer. 
There is quite a crowd on the shore, curiously 
gazing at the Pilot-Boat steered toward a strand its 
kind so rarely visit. Ten minutes, five minutes 
more, then the pier is touched, a rope thrown to 
willing hands is grasped and made fast, the schooner 
brought to a stop, and from its deck there jumps a 
lithe, hurrying form, while a voice cries to the 
policeman who has come up for news : 

“ Railroad, New York, quick! ” 

It is fully ten o’clock now ; almost half-past ; on 
week days, in spring, there are but few trains run- 
ning from the island to the City, and they are slow- 
going trains, too, stopping almost at every corner, 
picking up the villagers. It is a Brooklyn train, 


MAROUSSIA'S WEDDING GIFT 313 

the Tzigane gets into, and there are so many 
changes, and cars, and bridge-tolls, and other troubles 
to get over, that it seems a miracle to see her stand- 
ing under the New York City Hall clock, just as the 
noon-hour whistle sounds through the Metropolis. 
A cab is hailed. 

“ St. Margaret ! ” she cries, panting with unspeak- 
able anguish ; for has she not read her fate upon 
the clock up there? 

“ What you say, ma’am?” the man asks leaning 
from his perch. 

“ St. Margaret, Church, Fifth Avenue,” she 
almost screams, wild with impatience. “ Quick, 
quick.” 

“All right, ma’am,” from the cabby. “ Me and 
me mare’ll do our level best, don’t you fret.” He 
whips the sorry beast and off they go, up Broad- 
way, crowded, bustling, slippery as ever. At Cham- 
bers Street, they stop, hemmed in by cars, trucks, 
cabs without number. Freed at last, they wend 
their way, eel-like, until Canal Street is near. An- 
other block, another moment of awful suspense for 
the trembling woman inside. In her lap she holds 
her watch, her eyes never losing sight of the devour- 
ing hands that eat up the minutes. Suddenly, at 
Bleecker Street, the man turns the corner with reck- 
less hurry and comes to grief. Down goes the mare, 
with the loud report of a bursting shaft. In a 
second, Maroussia is out of the cab and, thrusting a 
dollar in the cursing driver’s hands, runs along 
Broadway, her eyes sweeping over the rush for an 
empty vehicle. Two blocks away, she catches sight 


3 14 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

of one, and oblivious of all danger, dashes through 
the throng, and enters it like a whirlwind. 

“St. Margaret!” she repeats, her lips parched, 
and almost unable to utter a word. It’s quite near 
now ; five minutes more, and the cab rolls in front 
of a wide awning stretched between curb and door. 
St. Margaret it is! St. Margaret at last! 

But how silent! how deserted! The wide gates 
are opened though, and upon the altar, amid a wealth 
of flowers and shrubs, in the sombre splendor of the 
nave, a row of lighted candles — for this is a very 
high church indeed — have not yet been blown out. 
A few menials or cleaners are walking about, setting 
things aright; a big crowd has just been there — and 
is gone. 

Before the door, two men are beginning to pull 
down the awning, going at it in a leisurely, profes- 
sional way. To them the girl, so strangely bewil- 
dered that she fails to understand what it all means, 
turns, and asks, as she stands on the sidewalk, a 
step from her cab : 

“ St. Margaret ? ” 

“ Sure, ma’am, that’s St. Margaret.” 

“ Marriage finished ? ” 

“ Just finished ; not five minutes since the people 
have left — Sorry for you, you missed the show. A 
big thing, a Duke — ” 

“ A Duke ? ” she repeats in a dazed, expressionless 
"voice. 

Suddenly the scrap of paper is before her eyes 
again ; it is covered now with big, glaring letters ; 
it says : “ Zelia Van Cleet, East Forty-ninth Street ” 


maroussia’s wedding gift 315 

— she sees it, yes, she does, all red, all bloody like, 
and the letters grow and grow until they cover the 
whole church, the whole sky above. She turns 
round, to escape the odious hallucination ; still the 
letters are there, and growing and glaring ; now 
they ring in her ears, they shriek, they fill the 
whole street with their damnable howling. Look, 
the driver heard them, for he has picked up the 
reins, and like mad, he whips his horse, and gallops 
on and on, up and up the Avenue, Maroussia la 
Juwa, huddled within the swinging, jolting cab, 
shuddering before the awful vision — 

In front of the Union Club, his hand upon the 
door of a smart coupe, encumbered with sundry 
bags and dressing cases, Cortlandt Laster is stand- 
ing, giving a few parting instructions to one of the 
liveried servants. His departure has been delayed 
a few hours, and as he came out of his rooms and 
lingered awhile upon the Club stoop, he just saw 
the carriages of the Imeguy-Van Cleet wedding file 
along the Avenue. There are deep circles around 
the man’s eyes ; he looks wan, and tired, and aged. 
For once the enemy he kept so long at bay has 
mastered him ; a shudder akin to remorse has passed 
through his frame ; and in his soul a voice has whis- 
pered, in tones that refuse to be hushed : “ This 

last deed of yours was a wicked deed ! ” 

With a tremulous, angry gesture, he wipes his 
perspiring brow, as if to drive away the haunting, 
relentless thought, and with a quick movement that 
reminds one of the firm, determined man he used 


3 16 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

to be, he swings himself into the coupe, calling 
out : 

“ Grand Central Depot ; New Haven road.” 

But before the horse has started, his eyes wearily 
wandering toward the church on the opposite cor- 
ner, meet the strange sight of a cab at a wild gallop, 
dashing toward Madison Square. Leaning forward, 
with an expression on her face no one will ever 
forget who did gaze upon it, that day, Maroussia 
the Gypsy, Serge d’lmeguy’s forsaken mistress, 
rushes past him like a dread apparition out of 
Dante’s Inferno . And where she goes — he knows ! 

“ Follow this cab, and pass it,” cries Laster, in tones 
that cause the driver on the box to jump; never, 
in ten years’ service has he heard his master speak in 
such terrified accents. Down goes the whip ; with 
a jerk that almost parts the reins the blooded horse 
is off at a pace that tells. In full chase now, cab 
and coupe sweep the Avenue, the people on the 
sidewalk raising their hands in affrighted dismay, 
curses and shrieks uttered on all sides, a wild con- 
fusion succeeding the orderly procession of the 
stately turn-outs. A lane is quickly made for the 
runaways, and like a flash of lightning the news of 
their reckless advent reaches up to the Park en- 
trance. There is no hindrance to their extraordi- 
nary race; strange to say, the common cab-horse 
keeps his distance, and defies the royal efforts of the 
thoroughbred. The coupe is getting closer and closer, 
though, for the slope up Murray Hill has told upon 
the hired hack. Almost together the two turn the 
corner of Forty-ninth Street, just as the carriages of 


MAROUSSIA'S WEDDING GIFT 317 

the Ducal wedding begin to unload their gaily chat- 
tering occupants; touching each other now, cab and 
coup6 draw to the curb and stop. 

At that very minute, Serge d’lmeguy, composed, 
smiling, and truly a Lord in his quiet, dignified 
bearing, was handing his blonde Duchess, in the 
long array of her wedding dress, out of the bridal car- 
riage. With a low bow of exquisite grace, he was 
offering her his arm to cross the sidewalk, when a 
dark, ghastly face springs out of the pavement like 
the Spirit of Revenge itself. 

“ For you, dastard/’ it cries — A flash, a report, 
and, at Maroussia’s feet the man falls, pierced 
through the heart. 

“You now, woman,” hisses the fury, and the 
weapon is levelled again, and the trigger is pressed, 
and the deadly missile flies from the barrel — 

But it is not the fainting form of Zelia it strikes 
and murders. With a cry of wild warning that sounds 
like a clarion of battle, Laster has thrown himself in 
front of the white-robed girl, and the blood that 
gushes in a scarlet flood from a mortal wound is his 
blood, not hers. 

A third shot — a sure one, this time — and upon the 
quivering body of Serge d’lmeguy, fallen across the 
overflown gutter, Maroussia la Juwa, her lover’s 
ivory-handled revolver yet smoking in her grasp, 
gives up her soul with a last curse on her lips. 


XVII 


THE KISS OF ETERNAL PEACE 

They had carried Cortlandt Laster, unconscious, 
and to all appearances dead, into the large bedroom 
on the second floor of the Forty-ninth Street mansion 
— that very chamber from which Mrs. Van Cleet 
would emerge whenever using the mysterious steel- 
safe exit. 

There he lay, upon the wide Flemish bed enclosed 
in its tapestry curtains, and hours passed before a 
sign of returning life manifested itself upon his pallid 
face. A surgeon, who happened to be present at the 
wedding of his old schoolmate’s daughter, had 
attended the wounded man until his family physician 
and another famed practitioner had had time to 
reach his bedside. The three doctors had not been 
long rendering their dread verdict, renouncing every 
shadow of hope when a cautious probing revealed 
the right lung to be perforated through and through. 
Even the bullet they could not reach, and soon 
gave up the attempt, as it would only hasten the 
end. 


THE KISS OF ETERNAL PEACE 319 

Night had set in when Laster’s eyes opened for 
the first time, slowly and wearily. The loss of 
blood, more than the shock or the grievous nature 
of the wound, had weakened him to such a degree 
that he felt a strange sensation of emptiness about 
the heart and brain. He could move his hand, 
though, and turn his head. 

“ Is this you, Eddie? ” he asked in a whisper that 
caused his nephew, who had waited so long for a 
token of consciousness, to start back as if he heard 
a voice from the tomb. Quickly the young man 
reached the head of the bed, and leaning over close 
to the wounded man’s ear, said, with evident signs 
of deep concern : 

“ Yes, Uncle Cortlandt, I am here — Louise also — ” 

The soft rustle of an approaching gown revealed 
the presence of young Mrs. Laster, her eyes red and 
swollen. The old man’s lips smiled kindly while he 
muttered : 

“ My dear children, you are all I have around me 
to-day — ” 

In the background, faintly lighted by a shaded 
lamp, some forms were noiselessly moving. Laster 
asked not who they were, but motioning his nephew 
yet nearer to him, he said : 

“ Cable to Adelaide, Carlsbad ; cable all — Beg her 
to answer — at once.” And the wounded man’s eyes 
closed again as. if exhausted by the effort. One of 
the doctors came to him, with a cordial in a glass, 
to keep awake for a little while longer the flickering 
spark. Without a word or a sign of recognition, 
Laster swallowed the proffered draught, and 


320 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

appeared to sink into a strangely quiet and restful 
slumber. 

He was not asleep, though ; on the contrary, it 
seemed to him as if his thinking powers and his 
memory of the past were gradually returning ; until, 
in all its vivid, cruel reality, his very life stood out 
before him in strong, implacable relief, commanding 
him to pass judgment upon it, before forsaking it 
forever. A religious man he had never been, and 
was not, even in this hour of supreme anguish. 
There arose within him no wretched terror of retri- 
bution, no dread of an after-existence of everlasting 
torture ; but it was a$ if he heard the stern voice of 
conscience calling him to account for those actions 
of his that had brought shame, or sorrow, or both, 
to those he had tempted or betrayed. 

Thus he lay, his eyes closed, and his pulse 
weakly throbbing, but his brain afire with visions of 
the past % It all came back to him, even to the 
happy, thoughtless childhood days, on the big home- 
stead on the Hudson River. Then, the college 
years, so merry, so bright with generous ambitions 
and innocent hopes, so exquisitely poetized by this 
first, ingenuous love of his for the frail, tender and 
beautiful girl whom he had chosen as his wife. 
When he had led her to the altar, their added ages 
reached not up to two-score years, and they had 
settled in the marriage estate with the pure enthusi- 
asm of two unspotted children of nature. Shortly 
afterwards his father had died, and that enormous 
wealth, the accumulation of three generations, had 
come to him to enjoy, to husband — to resist. For 


THE KISS OF ETERNAL PEACE 


321 


its possession brought with it such extraordinary 
power for evil-doing, such detestably irresistible 
temptations, that it seemed to hold within itself the 
very essence of corruption. And the canker had 
eaten its way slowly but fatally, and before he had 
reached his twenty-eighth year, the knowing ones in 
society would smile when his name was mentioned, 
as one does when speaking of an accomplished rout. 
His home had lost its influence, its charm, its sa- 
credness, and in its stead, he had built to his ever- 
indulged selfishness, a sumptuous and voluptuous 
temple. Saddened, but still unshaken in the depth 
of her heaven-blessed affection, his wife had suffered 
in silence the wicked estrangement he had created 
between them. 

Thus had life drifted along, and as mature years 
had succeeded the exuberance of youth, he had felt 
the very relish of those pleasures unlimited wealth 
secures for its possessor, fade away, and even turn 
into unutterable disgust. A loathing for everything 
money can buy had come over him like a bane, and 
he was truly believing himself not a reformed, but a 
cured, voluptuary, when, the blonde head of Zelia 
Van Cleet, her slender, maidenly form and her 
smile of infinite grace and alluring innocence had 
loomed up before his eyes. All of a sudden his old 
appetite for that forbidden fruit he had begun to 
find so tasteless, so repugnant even, resumed its im- 
perious, devouring sway over him ; and, with that 
concentrated intensity elderly men seldom fail to 
manifest whenever touched by the shaft of Love, 
he had set to work to make this young girl the 

Cortlandt — 21 


322 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

instrument and the victim of his unhallowed pas- 
sions. 

And now, stretched upon that bed, in that house 
which had been part and parcel of the detestable bar- 
gain, he remembered with strange distinctness how 
the purity of the child, assisted by the rapidity of 
events he had been unable to control, had upset his 
every calculation ; how he had been driven, in obe- 
dience to her mother’s desperate, almost threatening 
supplications, into throwing her, whose good name 
he had so grievously compromised, into the arms of 
a miserable adventurer, but too glad to barter his 
sonorous but sullied title fora lump of his — Laster’s 
— gold ; how once more, the cold hand of Fate had 
ruined, at the last minute, the carefully laid plans to 
conceal his misdeed and to open, perhaps, possibili- 
ties for further infamies ; how he had been called 
upon to pay himself the supreme reckoning — not 
with money, this time, but with his life. 

How long he had lain thus, revolving within him- 
self the torturing regrets of his wasted opportunities, 
and of the grief and dishonor he had brought upon 
others — he knew not, he cared not. He felt the ebb 
of his life’s tide running out, faster and faster, into 
the dark ocean, and, as the conviction settled in his 
mind that his hours, his minutes, perhaps, were 
numbered, there arose within him a passionate, a 
desperate yearning to undo at least one of the 
wicked actions that he now so poignantly real- 
ized to have been his work, solely and irretrievably 
his work. With the swiftness of an inspiration, a 


THE KISS OF ETERNAL PEACE 323 

thought crossed his brain ; not allowing a moment’s 
delay to elapse, he opened his eyes, not wearily this 
time, ^nd looked around him with something of the 
tranquil determination that had sat so well and so 
long upon his handsome features. He lifted his 
hand, and his nephew came to him at once. 

“ Eddie,” the wounded man said, speaking now 
with singular distinctness ; “ send my valet to Lance- 
lot Van Rassel, at his club, at his house — I must 
see him at once — I must — ” He stopped, gasping 
for breath. The Doctor put a glass to his lips, 
while young Mr. Laster walked noiselessly to the 
door to carry his uncle’s message. Cortlandt 
greedily swallowed several mouthfuls of cordial, in 
his visible anxiety to keep up his strength for a 
little while yet. Then to his niece, who was mur- 
muring close to him words of tender good cheer, he 
§aid : 

“ How late is it? ” 

“ Ten o’clock, dear Uncle.” 

“ Nothing from Carlsbad yet ? ” 

“ Nothing, but the answer is expected soon, very 
soon,” — the voice failed her when she thought how 
soon it would have to come if it was to be in time. 
The wounded man had ceased speaking, and closing 
his eyes again, fell into a sweet, peaceful doze. 

When he awakened, but an hour later, he right 
away noticed, at a little distance from the bed, and 
directly under the shaded rays of the lamplight, the 
grave and sadly altered face of Lancelot Van Rassel. 

“ Lancelot,” he said, speaking hardly above a 
whisper. 


324 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

The young man came to him at once, and gently 
seized his hand within his ; Laster pressed it 
slightly, while saying : 

“ Ask Eddie to leave us alone, you and I, for a 
few minutes. Wait, though and motioning his 
nephew to his side, he asked again : 

“Nothing from Carlsbad yet?” 

“Nothing, dear Uncle, but I have a man waiting 
for the message at the nearest telegraph office, and 
the Western Union people are notified. Trust me, 
there won’t be a minute’s delay.” 

“I trust you, dear boy. Now leave me with 
Lancelot.” 

They all silently withdrew, and the door closed 
upon this strange interview. It was short, and 
truly characteristic of the man who had caused it to 
take place. He spoke first, saying: 

“ Lancelot, I have done you a great harm — ” 

The younger man turned his head away, almost 
unable to control himself, but he still held his old 
friend's hand within his own. 

“A great harm,” repeated the wounded man ; “ I 
knowhow you felt about it ; it well-nigh broke your 
heart.” 

No answer yet, no protestation. 

“But the harm I did you — I did her — yes, her, 
who has never for one moment ceased to love you, 
never, I know it — this grievous harm I can yet 
undo.” 

Still Van Rassel’s lips remained sealed. 

“ Lancelot,” Cortlandt Laster now said with a 
growing vehemence that seemed about to cost him 


THE KISS OF ETERNAL PEACE 325 

his last breath of life, “ Lancelot, have you any faith 
in a dying man’s word ? You will not answer me — 
but you do have such faith ? I beg of you, Lance- 
lot, say yes ! ” 

Turning his face with a mighty effort toward his 
wounded friend, Van Rassel at last recovered the 
power of speech, and said in low, distressed tones : 

“ I shall believe every word you say, every 
word — ” 

“ Then listen to this: Zelia Van Cleet is worthy 
of a good man’s love. She has gone through the 
furnace, unscathed, and she needs you, as truly as 
she loves you.” 

“ If she loves me, as you believe,” replied Lance- 
lot, raising his voice as if uttering a solemn pledge 
before God and men ; “ I shall take her, in the face 
of the world, I shall take her trustingly and ador- 
ingly, to be my wife until death us do part.” 

An expression of immense relief settled upon the 
face of the dying man ; his fingers tried to press the 
hand of his reconquered friend, then his head rolled 
upon the pillow in a stupor akin to death. 

Quickly Lancelot walked back to the door, and open- 
ing it, motioned the Doctor to his patient’s side. 
Eddie Laster followed him in, at once, an opened 
telegram in his hand. 

“Am I too late ? ” he whispered, in awed desola- 
tion. 

The physician touched the dying man’s pulse and 
answered : 

“ No, not too late, but there are only minutes 


now — 


326 CORTLANDT LASTER, CAPITALIST 

“ Then wake him up, wake him up,” said Eddie 
Laster excitedly ; “ I hold his wife’s last farewell in 
my hand.” 

Did the dying man hear these words, or did a 
mysterious intuition of the joy yet in store for him 
call him back from the sombre shore of the ever- 
rolling river? His eyes opened, and his lips moved, 
without uttering a sound, but eloquent enough in 
their mute appeal. 

And in a voice that shook with suppressed 
emotion, Eddie Laster read aloud : 

“ A loving, loving kiss to the parting one, from 
the fond bride of his youth.” 

Oh ! what a smile illumined the wan features of 
the dying man, transfiguring his face into the sem- 
blance of the bridegroom of the good, pure days of 
yore ! A slight gesture of his brought his nephew 
closer to him. The weak, limp hand found strength 
enough to seize the cablegram, now worth to him 
all his millions, and as he pressed the crumpled 
paper against his trembling lips — he died. 


THE END. 


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THE CARTARET AFFAIR. 

By St. George Rathborne, author of “ Dr. Jack.” with sixteen 
full page engravings by Henry Mayer. “Endorsed by the press, 
welcomed by the reading public.” 


Readers of good literature are advised to procure Daird & Dee’S 
Publications, as they are printed in large type oh exceUent paper, pro* 
fusely illustrated, and bound in solid and attractive covers. 

SO 1~D BY ALL NEWSDEALERS AND UPON ALL TRAINS, OR SUPPU* r 
BY THE PUBLISHERS. 

LAIRD <& LEE, CHICAGO . 











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